Wrong Life
by StarfireRocks
Summary: David Rossi's son was kidnapped when he was four. Almost two years later, Rossi finally gets a lead, only to be lead to the belief that his son was killed. Now, twenty-two years later, it seems that everything they thought was wrong and that his son may be closer than he thought.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N - That's right, another Criminal Minds story. Only, this time, it's a long chapter fic. The chapters are going to be long - longer than what I usually write - so, it'll take a while to post them. **_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds; or anything at all recognizable.**

David Rossi's brows furrow as he tries to cling onto the last tendrils of his dream. He rolls over in his ridiculously large bed, arm flinging out to the side. He expects to feel the warm body of his wife, Carolyn, but instead his arm is greeted by the cool sheets. He sighs in disappointment as he finally loses his battle with the remainder of his dream and it slips away, leaving him wide awake. David cracks his eyes open, curious as to why his wife isn't beside him. He is alone in the bed, and he turns onto his back to observe around the room.

As his eyes rake over the opposite wall, Carolyn steps out of their walk-in closet, already fully dressed. She finishes buttoning her blouse and looks up, smiling when she sees her husband awake and watching her. She quietly pads over to the bed and slides over the covers, lying next to him as he blinks the final residue of sleep from his eyes.

"Morning," she says softly, eyes bright and mouth upturned. "You don't usually sleep in."

David shifts so he is leaning against the headboard before cocking an eyebrow at her. "I usually have work in the morning. Luckily, today was just supposed to be a paperwork day, and since I finished everything yesterday. . . " He shrugs, stretching out in the warm bed.

"If only we were all so lucky," Carolyn teases him. "I won't be long. I just have to put in a few hours at work to keep them off my back for taking so many personal days. You gonna be okay?"

David rolls his eyes at her distrust. "You underestimate me," he says, pretending to be hurt. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of my son for the day."

Carolyn studies him skeptically, but eventually her mouth twitches and she slips off the bed. "If you're so sure," she sings as she makes her way across the room, "then I'll let you wake him. I warn you, he's definitely not a morning person. Takes after his father," she laughs before exiting the room and gliding down the hall to her son's bedroom to give him a kiss on the forehead before leaving.

After his wife leaves, David remains in bed for a few minutes, listening to the house around him. He can hear Carolyn return down the hall and descend the staircase where she scoops up her keys and closes the front door quietly behind her. A few seconds later he hears the light hum of her vehicle as she disappears down the driveway.

David smirks and flings himself into a sitting position, stepping away from the bed and rolling his shoulders. He travels into the walk-in closet and emerges a few minutes later fully clothed. David retreats into the bathroom to complete his morning routine and glides out ready to tackle the daunting task of waking his son.

CM

David pushes his son's bedroom door open slowly, peering inside and smiling at the scene. His son is sprawled out on his small bed, arm dangling off the side. Half of the blue blanket trails onto the pale carpet, and the pillow is discarded on the otherside of the room, looking lonely against the light blue wall.

David cautiously ventures in, keeping his eyes on the floor in case of any stray toys. He nudges an ugly looking teddy bear out of the way with his foot and kneels beside his boy's bed. He quickly glances at the rocket clock on the bedside table, surprised that it's 9:00.

"James," he says gently, laying a hand on his son's small shoulder. Even for a four-year old, James is small for his age. "Time to wake up, buddy."

David brushes his thumb against James's cheek, causing the boy's eyes to flutter open. He quickly snaps them shut, hiding the chestnut irises. David's lips twitch in amusement as his son tries to slip back asleep.

"C'mon, mio figlio, it's time to get up."

David lightly brushes his son's brown hair away from his face, tapping his cheek gently to rouse him.

James finally reopens his eyes, glaring adorably at his father. "Tired," he complains, his voice a mere whisper. David smiles, leaning back on his heels and studying his son. James curls up in a ball, wrapping his arms around his skinny knees and pouting. "Wanna 'leep," he insists, resting his chin on top of his knees.

David shrugs and begins to stand. "Alright. Guess I'll just go find some other little boy to take to the park this afternoon," he says as he starts to walk to the door. Behind him he hears a light _thump! _and then his son is clinging to his leg.

"No! No!" James cries, hugging his leg tightly. "Take _me_, Daddy! I awake! I wanna go!"

David chuckles and bends down to scoop up his son in his arms. James lays his hands on his chest and stares up at him with wide chocolate-brown eyes, lower lip stuck out and trembling at the thought of his daddy taking another little boy to the park.

"You want to go to the park with me?" David asks in amusement, watching his son bob his head up and down quickly. "Well, okay then. But not until later, alright? You have to get dressed and eat breakfast first."

James scrunches his face in disgust but as David puts him down he does what his father asks. David sits on the small bed as his son scrambles around the room, grabbing the first clothing articles he can find. Within seconds the young boy is standing in front of him again, holding out the bundle of clothes victoriously. David takes the clothes from him and plunks them on the bed beside him before fishing out a pair of small jeans and a Star Wars shirt. He helps his son out of his pajamas and into his clothes, though James insists on doing the socks himself. David is a little dubious at the match, but James is more than delighted with the one green and one blue sock he pulls onto his feet.

"We go to park now?" James asks hopefully.

David shakes his head and hides his smile as he stands once again and holds out his hand to his little boy. James slips his tiny hand into his and David leads them out into the hall. James swings their joined hands as they walk, hopping and skipping to keep up with his father's longer strides. When they get to the staircase, James refuses his daddy's help.

David stays close to his son's side as he begins his slow journey downwards, ready to catch him if he stumbles. James sticks his tongue out as he concentrates, keeping a hand latched onto the railing as he steps down every time.

When they are finally at the bottom, James beams and starts jumping up and down, proud of himself. David ruffles his hair affectionately and herds him into the kitchen, helping him climb into his booster seat.

"What do you want for breakfast, buddy?" he asks, leaning across the table to better look at his son. James squirms in his seat, sinking so low in it that only his eyes peek out above the surface of the table. "Pancakes? Waffles? Toast? Cereal?"

"Cereal!" James yells, shooting up in his seat and clapping. "Rice Kissbies," he adds as an afterthought.

David's eyes crinkle at his mispronunciation, but he spins around and moves into the kitchen declaring, "Rice Kissbies it is!" anyway.

James swings his legs under the table as he waits, tapping his fingers against the surface.

"Daddy," he calls. "Where Mommy?"

David saunters back over, placing the bowl of cereal in front of him with unnecessary flourish before plopping into a seat opposite his son. "She's working," he replies, flicking a stray Rice Krispie at his son. "Why, am I not good enough for you?"

James giggles, snatching up the offending piece of cereal and eating it. "Mommy working like you do?" he asks, tilting his head to the side and piercing his father with an intense gaze unusual of a four-year old boy. "Mommy come home?"

David's eyes grow sad as he observes his son worry over his mother not returning. "Don't worry, buddy, Mommy's coming home," he assures quietly, reaching out to stroke his son's arm.

James seems sastified, turning back to his breakfast and attacking the cereal. Then he slows and looks back up at his father. "Why Daddy no eat?" he demands. David raises his eyebrows but doesn't get a chance to answer. James scoops up a spoonful of cereal and flings it back out, causing milk to splatter over the counter. "Eat," he orders, eyes narrowed.

"You want me to eat your cereal?" David says, highly amused. "Why?"

"Daddy needs to eat," James insists. "Need to be strong so you can beat baddies."

With that logic, David takes the spoon from his observing son and swallows the offered cereal. James smiles and claps his hands again, becoming restless once more.

"All done?" David asks as he stands from his seat. James bobs his head and David takes his bowl to the kitchen. He rinses it out and places it into the dishwasher rack before lifting James out of his booster seat and carrying him into the living room.

"We have about an hour or two before we go to the park," he says as he eyes the clock. "So what do you want to do now?"

James considers his options for a minute, his fingers idly playing with the buttons on David's shirt. "Lego?" he finally suggests timidly, looking up at his daddy through his hair shyly.

"Legos it is," David announces, ascending the stairs and traveling back to James's room. He places the boy on his feet and looks around the room, searching for the lego box. "Where's the legos, mio figlio?" he asks, giving up.

James giggles and drops to his knees, crawling halfway under his bed. He wriggles back out, a large box clutched in his hands.

"Under your bed?" David questions, but is ignored by his laughing son. So he lowers himself to the floor, waiting for James to pop off the lid of the box before helping him dig around for the pieces.

David helps his boy follow the instructions to build a lego space-ship, reading out the steps and watching in amazement as he follows them directly.

It takes half an hour to finish the space-ship, the castle, and the boat, and by that time David is utterly astounded by his son. James carefully places the creations on his bookshelf while David clears away the boxes and instructions.

With another glance at the clock, David creeps towards his son and grabs him up from behind. James lets out a squeal and twists around to face him, giggling and kicking his feet.

"Not nice, Daddy," he huffs, crossing his arms. The effect is ruined, however, by his bright eyes and the continued laughter that spills through his mouth. Then James's whole expression brightens. "Park now, Daddy? Go to park?"

David pretends to think about it for a moment. "I don't know. . . maybe we should wait for Mommy to get home."

James gasps and wriggles in his arms, reaching for the floor. Curious, David lets go of him and follows his son as he runs out of the room. James leads him into David and Carolyn's room, and David leans against the doorframe as he watches his boy climb onto the bed. James scrambles across the bed to reach the bedside table and grabs up the phone there.

"What are you doing?" he asks as James glares at the phone, thumbs hovering over the keys.

"Calling Mommy," he answers, still staring at the phone. "I wanna talk to Mommy and she's at work. When you're at work me and Mommy call you."

David approaches the bed and sits next to his small son, gently taking away the phone. "You and Mommy call me at work when I don't come home at night. Mommy will be home in a few hours, buddy. You can talk to her then."

James glances up at him, looking confused. "When _you _go work before I wake up, you wake me to say bye. Mommy didn't wake me."

David presses his lips together, placing a hand on his son's head and stroking his hair. How is he supposed to explain to a four-year old that he wakes him up in case it's the last time he gets to? That there might be a day where daddy doesn't come home?

"Well Mommy will be home in time to kiss you good night," he promises. "In fact, she'll be home for dinner. So, before she comes home, why don't we go to the park?"

James instantly nods in excitement, earlier worrisome conversation forgotten. "Park! Park! Park! Park! Park! Park!" he chants as he jumps off the bed and races into the hall. David hesitates for a seond before sighing and following, letting the sound of his son's joyous laughter drown out the negative thoughts.

David finds James waiting impatiently for him at the front door. He kneels down to the boy's level, holding out a sweater he'd grabbed from his room. "It's a little chilly outside, James. You need a sweater before we can go to the park."

James sighs and pouts but allows his father to help him put on a sweater. He squeaks as he is lifted into the air again, and David opens the front door. James wriggles in his hold as David locks the door before finally walking over to the car. He wrestles his son into the carseat and buckles him in, despite James's best efforts.

"But, Daddy!" he complains. "I big now! I don't need special seat!"

David looks at him skeptically in the rearview mirror as he settles into the driver's seat. "Sorry, buddy. It's the law. In a couple years you won't need it, but until then I'm afraid you're stuck with it."

James leans back in his seat in defeat, lolling his head to the side to stare out the window. After a few minutes he starts swinging his legs out, singing nursery rhymes under his breath as he keeps his eyes locked on the glass of the window.

David watches him in the rearview mirror, a smile becoming a permanent fixture on his face. He doesn't get to spend all that much time with his son because of his job, but that only makes days where he _does _- days like today - even more special. Despite his frequent long absences because of work, he's managed to see every new development with his son - if not in person, then through video thanks to Carolyn. He reads James a bedtime story every night, even when he's away at work, and makes sure to kiss him - and wake him - in the morning before he leaves.

David pulls into the parking lot of the community park, unbuckling his seat belt and stepping out of the car. He opens the door to James's side, but stills when he sees his son struggle with his safety belt.

"Need some help?" he asks mildly.

James shakes his head fervently, still fighting with the buckle.

"Buddy, those are kid-proofed. You're not going to be able to - "

David trails off as the buckle pops open and James is freed. James smirks in victory before beginning to climb out of the car. David snaps out of his shock enough to help him. He gathers his son in his arms and walks over to the playground, where several children - older than James - are playing Freeze Tag.

David places James on the bench standing, so that he's closer to his father's height

James scans the park, twisting his hands together as he thinks. Suddenly, his eyes catch on something and his face lights up. "Daddy, swings!" he exclaims, glancing at his father and jabbing a finger at the swing set on the other side of the park. David easily complies with his son's wishes; he hefts James back up and strides over to the swings.

He sets his son into one of the basket seats, even though James loudly declares them 'owie'. David pushes James gently at first, but after he gets used to it, his father pushes him harder and harder. James's laughter never ceases as he flies through the air, and asks to go faster and higher.

"If you go any higher, you'll go around the top bar," David tells him, a chuckle of his own escaping by unnoticed. James shakes his head violently.

"No, Daddy! Can't go over bar. Not poss-possi-possiball," he struggles to get out, frowning when he discovers he can't say the word right.

"Sure it is," David disagrees. "You just have to go high enough. Want to try it?"

James's eyes widen and he grips the swing tighter. "No! No! Too high, Daddy, too high!"

David instantly slows the swing to a more acceptable speed and mantains the level of height for the rest of the ride.

When James's laughter slowly tapers off and he rests his head against the chain connecting the seat to the bar, David catches the swing and pulls it to a stop. "Done with the swing?" he asks, moving in front of his son. James nods, holding out his arms and waiting for his daddy to pick him up. David immediately does so, settling him on his hip and walking back over to the benches.

James eyes something over his father's shoulder as David sits on a bench and pulls him onto his lap. "Daddy," he whispers, tugging on David's shirt collar. Once he has his father's undivided attention, he points behind the bench. "What's that?"

David cranes his head around to get a good look at whatever has caught his son's attention. He raises his eyebrows as he turns back to the small boy waiting patiently for his answer. "That's a chess table," he informs the curious boy. "Want to go see it?"

James nods enthusiastically and David wastes no time in taking him over. He places James in the chair on one side and settles into the one on the other side. James picks up one of the pawns, looking it over as he rolls it in his hands.

"Teach me?" he asks, looking hopeful. David considers for a moment. "Please, Daddy?"

"Alright," he agrees, taking the pawn from his son. "There are six different pieces," he begins. He continues to explain the game to his eager son, somewhat dubious that James will be able to understand it all - but within half an hour James gets the hang of the game and becomes an adequate match for his father.

CM

When Carolyn gets home she finds both boys in the kitchen, sitting at the table. James has his crayons scattered across the table surface and is scribbling on a colourful sheet of paper. David watches him with a smile, rolling different coloured crayons to him when James looks up from his art.

Carolyn leaves her bag on the coffee table in the living room as she joins them. "Hey," she greets brightly, leaning against the wall.

David looks up and smiles, nudging James gently. The small boy snaps his head up and swivels around. When he catches sight of his mother he gasps and slides out of his seat, bounding over to her and leaping into her arms. Carolyn laughs as she swings him into her arms, kissing the top of his head and hugging him tight.

"Did you have fun today?" she asks as James leans away from her. He nods eagerly, grinning and playing with her hair. "Oh yeah? What did you do?"

"We went to the park!" the small boy exclaims happily, bouncing in her arms. "Daddy pushed me on the swings and teached me chess."

"Taught," Carolyn corrects lightly as her husband comes up beside her. "You taught him chess?" She turns to him. "Isn't he a little young for chess?"

James lays his head against Carolyn's shoulder, closing his eyes and snaking his thumb to his mouth. David shrugs and goes back to the table, starting to clear away the drawing supplies. His wife strokes their son's hair lightly as she makes her way upstairs to his room, lying him down on his bed and retrieving his forgotten pillow. She gently lifts up his head and slips the pillow under it, brushing his cheek as she stands.

James yawns around his thumb and snuggles deeper into the bed, curling into a ball under the blanket his mother places over him. With a smile she directs to her son, his mother quietly leaves the room and goes back downstairs, where her husband has already cleared off the table.

CM

After James wakes and dinner is served, the boy cheerfully outlines what his father and he did during the day for his mother, talking so eagerly that David has to lightly remind him to eat. Once they all finish eating and the table is cleared again, James goes back to his drawing.

David slides into the seat next to his son, taking an interest in what his boy is doing. James hardly seems to notice; his brow is furrowed and his tongue is sticking out as he drags the crayons across the sheet of paper with so much pressure that David wonders how it doesn't tear.

"What are you drawing?" he asks, trying to see over his son's small hands. "Can I see it?"

James's head shoots up and he stares at his father with wide, horrified eyes. "Nuh uh!" he refuses vehemently. "Not till I done," he says firmly. "Surprise for Mommy and Daddy."

David raises his hands in surrender, smirking at his son as he returns to his artwork. They remain in silence for a while after that, David studiously pretending to not be trying to catch a glimpse of his son's work.

"James," Carolyn says softly from the doorway. "Come on, sweetie, time to get ready for bed."

She holds out a hand for the boy, who pouts but does as she says, hesitating for a second before snatching his drawing away from his curious father. He slips his hand into his mother's and follows her out of the room. David watches them with amusement, wondering what his boy had been drawing.

CM

Fifteen minutes later finds Carolyn in the shower and David curled up on the couch, reading a book and toying with the idea of writing his own. He looks up when he hears the pitter-pattering of small feet against the floor. James stands by the other end of the couch, looking nervous and clutching the ugly teddy bear in his hand tightly. He's in his space pajamas - long sleeved black-and-blue shirt with glow-in-the-dark planets and plain fluffy blue pants.

David puts the book down and sits up properly, eying his son curiously. "What's wrong, mio figlio?" he inquires, gently waving for him to come closer. James does so, creeping up beside him. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

James fidgets with his bear. "Can you tell me bedtime story?" he asks quietly, gazing up at him through the hair that has fallen in his face.

David smiles and pats the space beside him, helping his son up onto the couch when the boy starts to climb. James clambers onto his lap and leans against his chest, resting his head on his shoulder.

"Book or made-up story?" asks David lightly.

"Make up a story," his son decides, sneaking his thumb into his mouth and cuddling the teddy bear close with the other arm. David nods and wraps his own arms around his small form, searching his brain for a good, child-friendly story. It takes him a minute or two to come up with one.

By the time David finishes telling his son about the adventures of brave warriors fighting evil and rescuing fair maidens, James is deeply asleep and clinging to his shirt. David stands, being careful not to jostle his small passenger into consciousness, and begins carrying him to his room. He meets Carolyn in the hallway and she raises a brow at the fact that James had sneaked out of bed, but kisses his hair - and her husband's cheek - before continuing to their bedroom.

David stifles a yawn as he tucks his son into bed, pressing the ugly teddy bear closer to his boy's chest and lightly touching his shoulder before turning to leave the room. He hovers in the doorway, feeling the unease of having forgotten something, but not being able to remember what. He shakes it off and eases the door closed behind him before traveling to his own room. It's a bit early, but he has work in the morning and he is rather tired.

So he slips into bed, his eyes closing instantly. It's not until his brain is mostly submerged in sleep that he remembers he's forgotten to check the locks on the windows in his son's room. Before this thought can fully form, David Rossi is sound asleep.

CM

He is awoken the next morning by his wife, who shifts the bed as she stands. His eyes reluctantly pry open and he stares at the clock in disgust. It's only five o'clock and he was planning on sleeping for at least another hour and a half. He turns his eyes back to Carolyn in a questioning manner, screwing up his energy and moving into a sitting position.

Carolyn grins as if she knows exactly what he's thinking - which she probably does. "Sorry," she says, not sounding at all sincere. "But we _did _go to bed early last night, meaning James is probably already wide awake. I shudder to think what that boy will get up to if we leave him alone for too long." She shakes her head fondly.

David says nothing; he merely sighs and closes his eyes again, slumping against the pillows in a vain attempt to fall back asleep. He hears the soft chuckle of his wife as she leaves the room and has lulled himself into a sort of half-conscious state - when his eyes fly open at the sound of a loud scream.

He's bolted out of bed and is halfway down the hall before the sound fully registers in his mind. He sprints to his son's room and sees Carolyn standing outside the door, clutching her neck. He stumbles to a halt beside her, worry erupting within him as he sees her horrified, tear-filled eyes.

"David," she whispers hoarsely, turning to him with a hollow look, "he's gone. James is gone!"

His heart filling with an icy feeling, David numbly steps into the room. Broken toys are strewn across the floor; like they'd been trampled on in a struggle. The bed's mattress is flipped over beside the bedframe, and the pillow is ripped clean apart. David's eyes, however, are drawn to the windowsill. The window itself is wide open, but David barely takes stock of this as his eyes zero in on the red stain on the wood at the base of the window. Blood, in his missing son's room, on the windowsill of the window he had forgotten to lock the night before.

Beside it flutters a stray piece of paper in the slight wind coming in through the window. David isn't aware of feeling his knees give out beneath him, but he suddenly finds himself on the floor, leaning against the wall as he listens to his wife begin to weep and half-heartedly search the house. He can't tear his eyes away from blood stain.

He doesn't hear Carolyn call the police, nor does he notice when she breaks down in the hallway. He just feels numb.

_**I'm sorry, I know there's almost definitely OOCness for the characters, but I did my best. If it really is way off the mark, just pretend that losing his son changed Rossi. . . Sorry, again. I feel like I'm forgetting something, but I can't think of anything right now. So, please leave a review - though I'm not going to hold the next chapter hostage or anything. :)**_

_**Like I said, my update schedule is going to be slow going. The chapters are long so they take a while to write, plus I have other stories in the work, despite the fact that I know it's a bad idea for there to be so. **_

_**I'd love to know what you guys think!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N - See, didn't take too long to update, did I? Not even a full week! Oh gosh, I just jinxed the next chapter, didn't I? Oops. Okay, I just have two warning for this chapter:**_

_**First Warning - I have several time jumps in this chapter, I apologize if this is confusing and/or inconvenient, but I found it as the only way to write this chapter without added confusion to myself.**_

_**Second Warning - I changed some major time/places/characters for this chapter, and will most likely continue to do so for the rest of the story. Then again, this is AU, so that's to be expected, right? **_

**Disclaimer: I apologize if there was any confusion to this subject, but I assure you, I do not own anything at all recognizable other than the plot; and even that I do not claim sole ownership to. I **_**have **_**read stories like this, but I promise, I am not trying ****to copy anything in any shape, way, or form.**

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The slow tapping of David's foot on the worn, somewhat dingy carpet echoes around the room. He hardly seems to notice what he's doing; he's staring blankly at the wall opposite of him, hands gripping the armrests of his chair so hard that his knuckles are white. He doesn't blink, doesn't look away from the muted paint on the wall.

Jason Gideon sighs as he slumps in the other chair in the room, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks back up at the other man, exhaling loudly. "Dave," he says wearily, "you know we have to do this."

David does not answer, but he inclines his head in Jason's direction.

Jason scrunches his eyes closed tightly and draws in a breath through his teeth. "Alright. What happened last night? Did anything seem out of place? Did someone pay a little too much attention to you and James when you were out? _Did _you go out? If so, where to?"

David's only response is to slowly reach into his pocket and draw out a crumpled piece of paper. Jason watches him quietly as he flattens out the paper, smoothing the crinkles and staring at the picture. "It was trapped by the window," David finally speaks, voice whisper-quiet. "Fluttering in the breeze. James drew it last night. Wouldn't let us see it."

"What is it?" Jason asks patiently. "Is it something that will help us find your son?"

"Where's Carolyn?" David asks suddenly, ignoring the question - or, perhaps not even hearing it in the first place.

Jason swallows an exasperated groan. "She's talking with Agent Thompson. They're going over what happened last night - like we should be."

David's quiet for another moment. "He knew," he says. "James knew."

"Knew what, Dave?" Jason asks carefully, eying his friend closely. "What did he know?"

Silently, David places the piece of paper on the table between them and, after glancing at it with a strange look, reluctantly slides it over to Jason. Agent Gideon keeps his eyes on the other man's face as he pulls the paper closer to him and looks down.

The drawing is that typical of a four-year old boy; stick-figure people and bubbly clouds. The picture itself is rather simple: three stick-figure people, the two on the ends bigger than the one in the middle. James had even labeled the figures - _Daddy, Mommy, Me_ - though, in Jason's opinion, there didn't seem to be much difference between 'Daddy' and 'Mommy'.

What is odd, however, is that there is one more stick-figure in the drawing. This one is off to the side and coloured green - in contrast with the other 'people', which are all coloured in purple. The stick-figure seems to be watching the others, but unlike them he - or she - isn't smiling.

Jason furrows his brow as he studies the drawing. "It's too bad he didn't label that one," he says absent-mindedly. He looks up when he sees David shift in the corner of his vision. The man's eyes flash as he looks at Jason with what could be described as disgust - or fury.

"It is not up to _my son_ to do _our _job," he all but growls. "He's _four_, Jason. You're telling me we can't do our job without a _four-year-old's _help? What kind of profilers are we?" he spits viciously.

Jason doesn't get insulted. "Dave," he tries instead, "this wasn't your fault."

David's head shoots up and his head swivels around to his co-worker. "I never said it was," he says hoarsely, using a feeble excuse that Jason instantly picks up on.

"You didn't have to," he says. "We've been in this room for half-an-hour, and for twenty of those minutes you couldn't stop tapping your foot. You can't focus on the questions, even though you know they're important, and more importantly; you keep redirecting the blame onto the BAU - or more specifically, you. So I'll say it again" - he looks directly at the other man - "it wasn't your fault."

David clenches his jaw and snatches back the picture, eyes falling on it once more. "I could've stopped it," he mutters. "I _should've _stopped it."

Jason starts to shake his head. "Dave, you couldn't have known - "

"You don't _understand_!" David cuts across, eyes never straying from the messy artwork. "I took him out to the park. If I hadn't, maybe whoever took him wouldn't have noticed him; wouldn't of followed us home. I should've noticed that someone was watching James at the park, or that we were being tailed on the way home. What if James had shown me this sooner? Maybe I would've known that somebody. . . " David takes a shuddering breath. "I didn't lock his bedroom window," he finishes hollowly.

Jason Gideon hesitates. "CSU confirmed that there was no forced entry, and that the UnSub more than likely escaped out of the window in James's room." David buries his face in his hands, but Jason hastily continues. "What's odd is that your son's room is on the _second floor. _How did the UnSub get up there? He can't of scaled the house; that'd be hard to do on a regular bases, but carrying a more than likely struggling four-year-old would make it near impossible."

"He fought," David states emotionlessly. "The boy fought. There were broken toys on the floor and the bedding was thrown everywhere. Obvious signs of a struggle. The UnSub probably had to subdue - "

"Dave, stop," Jason orders sharply. "You're talking like this is another little boy, a stranger. You're acting like a profiler, not a father. This is your _son._"

"I know!" David snaps. "I _know _this is my son we're talking about, _that's _why I'm purposely distancing myself! If I want to successfully work this case, then I need to be a profiler more than I need to be a grieving father. Acting like this isn't James that was taken lets me keep my head on the case."

"But it _was _James," Jason persists. "You _are _a grieving father. You can't work this case when you're so emotionally involved, you know that won't allow you to make proper judgements and - "

"I don't care," David flares, shooting to his feet. "I have to work this case. I can't just sit around and twiddle my thumbs when I can _help_! I _know _how to help find my son, and I am _going to_!"

"You _can _help," Jason seizes the opportunity, "by answering the questions to the best of your knowledge. You and I both know that even the tiniest detail could help."

David works his jaw but slowly sinks back into his chair, propping his head up in his hands and staring blankly at the wall again. "Okay," he mutters dully. Jason sighs but shifts in his chair to better watch the other man.

"Where did you and James go yesterday?"

"The park. Eleven-ish, almost noon. Before you ask, no, I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary at the park. It was sunny and there was a slight breeze, but there were only about four, five people in the park. Three of them were kids. All of them older than the vic - older than James. We stayed for about half-an-hour before heading home, and during that time I didn't notice anyone watching us or acting oddly."

Jason bites his lip and rubs his eyes. "What about when James went to bed? Did he go by himself? Did Carolyn take him, or did you?"

"Carolyn tried," David intones. "But when she was in the shower he sneaked back downstairs to ask me for a bedtime story. I told him one, and by the time I finished he was fast asleep. I carried him upstairs, met Carolyn in the hall, and tucked him into bed. I didn't see anything out of place in his room, but I was tired and forgot to check the lock on his windows."

Jason nods. "Okay, good. So after that, you went to bed. . . ? Did you fall asleep straight away, or did you stay awake listening to the house? Did you hear anything? Smell anything?"

David leans back in his chair and runs his hand through his hair. "I fell asleep straight away," he admits. "I was tired."

"What about this morning? What happened?"

"Carolyn woke up first, and I woke up not long after. I stayed in bed while she went to James's room to wake him up. I almost fell back asleep, but then I heard a scream and jumped out of bed and ran down the hall. The police came and" - David sweeps his arm across the room - "here we are."

Jason studies him for a second before extracting a small notebook from his pocket and scribbling in it. "Alright," he heaves heavily, snapping shut the notebook. "I'll see what else can be discovered at the crime scen - James' room."

Jason pushes himself to his feet and begins to walk to the door, only to stop when he notices that he is being followed. Jason spins around and pins David with an intense look. "You're not coming with me, Dave."

David narrows his eyes. "He's my son, and you're going to _my _house. I am quite capable of doing my job, Jason. I _am _coming."

Jason continues to stare at him. Then he exhales loudly and turns to the door sighing, "We'll see."

CM

Jason stands up from his crouched position beside James's bed, scanning the room as he makes his way over to Dave, who's staring at the windowsill. Jason paces up beside him and follows his gaze, eyes fixing on the bloodstain.

"They haven't determined whose it is yet," he says quietly. "It may not be his. We might even get lucky and get a hit on the UnSub."

David hums and leans over the windowsill, looking at something other than the red splotch. Jason quirks his eyebrow, eyes flitting to David's face before yet again tracing the lines of his eyesight. The outside portion of the window protrudes out of the wall, almost like a railing. The white paint is scratched and marked in two wide tracks, and Jason wracks his brain to think of what could have caused them.

"Rope ladder," Dave suggests. "UnSub hooks the rungs on the pane, and as he climbs it wears on the paint and scrapes it away. Explains how they reached the second floor without actually stepping inside."

"It's possible," Jason allows. "But how does he climb back out with a four-year-old?"

David hesitates. "James would've struggled," he finally says. "Even if it meant that the UnSub might drop him, he wouldn't have let a stranger take him without a fight. If James _did _know them, he would've been suspicious that they sneaked through his window."

"Maybe the UnSub never meant to kidnap him," Jason suddenly suggests, crossing his arms and resting his chin on his fist. "Maybe they just wanted to break into the house, steal a few things. Just didn't realize that James was in here. Maybe James woke up; startled the UnSub."

"Then why not just kill him?" David questions, hiding the quiver in his voice well - but not well enough to escape Jason's notice. He chooses to ignore it.

"Maybe they didn't have a weapon, and weren't strong enough to strangle or bl - " Jason, noticing David's expression despite his best efforts to cover it, wisely changes course, "so they just took him. Or maybe they didn't want to have to kill anybody. Was anything taken?"

David shakes his head, then pauses. "Not really. James's baby blanket is missing, but I assume he had it with him when. . . " He shakes his head again. "Why break in here to rob the place, only to run off with James?"

"Maybe they weren't wearing any disguise and were worried that James would be able to identify them if they took anything, so they took him to cover themselves. The fact that they didn't take anything else could mean that they changed their minds, but couldn't risk leaving him either way."

David shakes his head again. "Even if they _did _change their mind, the average robber would at least take _something_. Nothing's missing, from James's room or anywhere in the house other than that blanket, and it's not exactly valuable."

"So maybe James _was _the intended target after all." Jason sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead. "Basically, we're back to square one."

"In other words, we have absolutely nothing to go one," David drones, eyes firmly focussed on the wall above the small, barren bed. "James could be anywhere, with anyone."

* * *

_Two Months Later_

"Dave?" Jason calls as he enters the room. "The front door was unlocked," he says by way of answer when David spins around and stares at him. "You didn't come to work today, nor did you answer your phone."

"I was busy," he replies vaguely, turning back to the wall opposite the door.

"I see that," Jason notes, pulling out a chair from the desk and easing into it. "Quite the set-up you've got here." He looks around the room, taking in the various photos and notes taped to the walls. It's rather like the boards the BAU set up when on a case, but on a larger, full-room scale.

"You're still looking for him," Jason states quietly.

David clenches his jaw but doesn't turn away from the wall, keeping his back to Gideon. "Of course I am," he grounds out. "He's my son. I'm not giving up on him until I know what happened."

Jason eyes his friend. "Dave," he sighs reluctantly, "it's been two months. You know the chances for abducted children, I know you do. I hate to say it, I really do, but James is most likely - "

"I _know_," David interrupts sharply. "I know that children who are kidnapped are usually killed in the first twenty-four to thirty-two hours, but he's my _son_, Jason. I have to believe he's alive, if I don't - " He pauses and takes a breath. "I'm going to act like he's alive; going to continue working his case, until I'm proven wrong, until it's proven that he's dead. I won't like it, not in the least, but I'll accept it. Until then - I hope it never happens, I hope I'll be able to get him back alive - I'm going work my ass off to find him."

Jason stays quiet for a moment, allowing David to study his notes and the photos of James's room. "Have you actually gone in James's room yet?" he asks. David stiffens and shakes his head woodenly. Jason's eyes are drawn to a framed picture on the desk. It's the drawing of stick-figures. "How's Carolyn?"

"Leaving."

"What?" Jason blinks in shock. "Leaving? Why?"

"She thinks he's dead. She's been trying to convince me to let the case go, to allow myself to grieve. She doesn't understand that I _can't _accept it without proof."

"Would you be able to handle proof?"

David hesitates. "I don't know. But I _need _proof. Carolyn doesn't get that. She insists that our boy is gone. At first, she believed me. She believed that he was alive as much as I did. . .then, two weeks ago, James's fifth birthday came about." He pauses. "That's when it changed for her. She. . . broke down. Cried for a week, wouldn't leave the house. Convinced herself that he was dead, that it was too late. After she discovered that I wouldn't believe it, she said she had to leave. That I was drudging up memories and not allowing them to be put to rest; wouldn't let myself or her have peace - wouldn't put my _son _to peace."

Jason considers him. "You know she doesn't want your son dead anymore than you do. But she wants peace, Dave. Wants closure. I know" - he raises a hand to stop David's protests - "that _you _can't get closure until you have your son back or know for sure that he's gone. But Carolyn has accepted that James may not be coming back. I think you need to do the same."

"Okay." Jason blinks in astonishment and narrows his eyes. "Let's say I do accept that. Then what? What changes? I'd still want to find the one who took him, so that he can be put behind bars - or, more likely, so I can exact my own _justice_. So I'd still be working the case - just without the extra motivation of hoping to find James alive. Who would that help?"

"The director got in touch," Jason says simply. David turns his head to face him. "He wants you to stop working this case. He suggested that you hand it off to someone else in the BAU. You know they're trying to get us to operate in teams now, right? He wants you to give it to one of the trial teams to work. Thinks you're too involved."

David snorts. "'Give it to one of the trial teams'?" he quotes. "Why? So they can test their abilities to work as a team on my son's case? You know as well as I do, Jason, that the whole team thing won't work. It's more effective to work on your own."

"I don't know," Jason says mildly. "I think the whole team idea has merit. That way you can have different people with different skills give you their input. I think it'll help solve cases faster."

"Only if the people in the team have the right skills," David points out. "Otherwise it's completely pointless and the only thing it achieves is the guarantee of James's death."

"I'll take that as a 'no' to handing away the case." It's not a question, and David doesn't answer. "Have you at least considered the early retirement you were offered?"

"I'm too young to go into retirement," David deflects.

"That's why it's called 'early retirement'."

David pauses and finally faces Jason again. "I've thought about it. I've also thought about writing a book on profiling. But I can't do either until I know what happened to James."

"Right." Jason exhales. "Thought so." He pauses before broaching the next topic. "I actually came round for another reason," he proceeds cautiously. David immediately gives him his full attention. Jason keeps his eyes locked on the framed picture that James drew as he continues. "The lab finally gave back the results of the DNA test they did on the blood sample from the window."

David perks up instantly, clutching the notebook in his hand tightly. "And?" he asks eagerly. "What were the results? Was it - Was it James's?"

Jason shakes his head slowly, but quickly quashes the pitiful hope filling David's expression. "No. Inconclusive. They couldn't find a match."

"Two months for zilch?" David says bitterly. "They dragged it out for two months to say they didn't get a hit? Why'd it take them so damn long?"

Jason shrugs. "They were in the midst of staff changes. Besides, they were held up by trying to convert the system so that a good Technical Analysist will be able to identify samples quicker. Won't do any good if they aren't in the system, of course."

"Great," David mutters, rubbing his forehead. "Once again, we've got absolutely nothing."

"Dave," Jason starts up again, "I've already told you that the director wants you off the case. What I didn't tell you is that he anticipated your reaction. He's giving you two more months, _only _because he knows how important it is to you to be the one to close it."

"Two months?" David repeats. "Really?"

Jason's mouth twitches. "He had to pull some strings," he confesses. "But after two months you have to give it up to a trial team, Dave. You don't have a choice anymore." With that, Jason pushes himself out of the chair and saunters out the door.

David watches after him for a while, before turning around and studying the notes and photos once more.

* * *

_A Year Later_

David grits his teeth, yet somehow manages to keep the biting irritation that floods him from seeping into his voice or onto his features as he struggles to breathe out evenly. He achieves this remarkably well.

"I'm asking for one more look," he reasons. "That's it. Just one more look, just in case you - in case _I _missed anything the first time I looked it over."

Before the agent across from him is able to voice the poorly-veiled annoyance he clearly wishes to make known aloud, the two are interrupted by a third presence.

"Dave," the intruder greets, discreetly tapping the cornered agent on the shoulder as a signal to leave. The agent does so instantly, a look of upmost gratitude frank on his face as he makes his hurried escape.

David frowns at the retreating figure's back, eyes troubled. "That new agent is rather disrespectful," he notes mildly.

Jason raises an eyebrow and examines the man closely. "That 'new agent' has been here almost a year. He's part of one of the trial teams. Rather good, too. I'm sure he'd be more polite towards you if you showed up around here more often." Gideon shifts and eyes David critically. "You hardly come to work anymore, Dave, if ever. The last time had to be at least six months ago, and that was just to demand that the head of the trial team assigned to your son's case give you back authority over the investigation, or make you privy to every new development in the case."

David doesn't refute his claims, but he stands his ground. "I still work here. I'm still an agent of the BAU, and I have the right to help out with an investigation if I feel that the case is going nowhere."

"You do," Jason agrees. "But that's not why you came back here now. Maybe that's what you told yourself, but it's not the truth."

"So then what is the truth?" David challenges lightly, leaning back against an errant desk.

Jason contemplates his answer. "It's been a year," he says quietly. "Almost exactly a year since James was taken. I know it was his sixth birthday a couple weeks ago. Do you think maybe that's what caused this sudden desire to look over the case file again, even though the trial team has yet to have any success?"

David's silent for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek as he speculates. "I haven't read over the case in a few months," he replies carefully, minding every word. "I haven't lingered on it either. I think that if I looked over it again, it might be like giving it to fresh eyes - even though that approach didn't work last time." He sends a half-hearted glare at the man. "What could it hurt?"

Jason's eyes widen. "It could hurt _you_," he states matter-of-fact. "Bringing it up again."

"But?" David prompts.

"But," Jason drags out, "I suppose, if you're certain about this, I can't stop you. Even if I could, I probably wouldn't. Just wait here."

David nods and Jason leaves, apparently to track down a copy of the case file. David doubts that there will be anything new, but there is still a faint chance that something has been gathered since he had last hounded the trial team.

It only takes a few minutes for Jason to return with a copy of the case file. He passes it over to David and the man heads home, promising to inform Gideon straight away if he figures out something new - no matter how unlikely that scenario is.

CM

Over the course of two months, David studies the file but doesn't bother the actual active case. Jason keeps him well informed of any and all important leads, but those are few and far between. David tries to keep himself from delving completely into the case; tries to occupy his time with other things. He pays serious consideration to book writing, but his mind keeps straying back to his son and the case, and his concentration is easily ruined.

Something about the case - other than the obvious - irritates him. He feels like he is missing something, a key factor that will enable him to discover everything and find his boy - hopefully alive.

It's the blood sample, he decides. The inconclusive results. There should be a match. Just because the UnSub hadn't been in the system a year before, doesn't mean he isn't _now._ Mind made up, David travels to the BAU again, this time intent on finding different results.

CM

Jason isn't hard to find. It's harder to convince him to run the sample for DNA again.

"I know we got nothing when we tried it before," David tries to explain. "But what if the UnSub has committed another crime since James went missing, and was _caught,_ then he'd have to be in the system. It's got to be worth a shot. Please, Jason."

Gideon reluctantly gives in, if only because of the memory he has of a giggling small boy who was oddly observant and logical for a boy his age. Before David leaves to go home and await the new results from the blood sample, Jason warns him that this very well might be a dead end, and if it wasn't then David wouldn't be able to go with them to arrest the UnSub.

David agrees, too excited and distracted by the prospect of _finally _discovering what happened the year before to think things through and let Jason's words sink in.

CM

It's one week later when Jason informs David that they got a match on the blood sample.

"Dave," he calls as the man instantly jumps up. "Dave, you can't come."

David whirls on him, eyes wide and unfocussed. "Dave, I told you when you requested we retry the blood sample. I warned you that you wouldn't be able to come with us to take Michaels down. You know I can't let you come."

David hesitates but finally sits back down. "At least tell me how he got James."

Jason pauses while he tries to organize his thoughts into a proper explanation. "We think the UnSub is a man named Gary Michaels. He lives in Las Vegas, but we've confirmed that he was, in fact, in Quantico at the time of James's disappearance. Not only that, but he flew back out to Vegas the day after."

Sensing that Jason is leaving something out, David leans forward and narrows his eyes. "What else? How come you didn't get a hit on him before, but did this time? What did he do to get himself registered?"

He sighs. "He's a registered pedophile. But" - he quickly speaks over David outburst - "according to his record, he likes older children than James."

"Doesn't quite reassure me," David mutters wryly.

"We're about to head out to Vegas and pick him up. Though, I'll remind you that this technically is not a FBI case. We can't hold him without evidence."

David nods. "Going now?"

Jason stands as answer and bids his goodbye. "If he's there, Dave, alive, then we'll get him back to you. You should call Carolyn."

With that, he leaves.

CM

"Why am I here?" David asks, sinking into a chair and facing the other man as he enters in after him. "Did you get him? Do you have him in custody?"

Jason waits until he himself takes a seat, then turns his attention to the anxious agent across from him. "Gary Michaels is dead," he says bluntly. "Turns out his body was found a few days ago, but it was unidentified at the time. When we got there - and by 'we', I mean I worked with a trial team - we discovered that he was dead before we searched his place of residence. We don't know how he died, and we decided not to look into it after - "

Jason breaks off and seems unwilling to continue. At David's questioning look, however, he takes a breath and presses on. "When we searched Michaels' house we found a hidden crawl space. After we managed to break the door open we found a body." Gideon meets David's eyes steadily as he continues. "We weren't able to get an identity from the body - no way to get a DNA match. But we were able to confirm that it was the body of a young boy, approximately six years of age."

David digests this information silently. Then, "But you don't know for sure?"

Jason sighs. "Dave, you know I wouldn't tell you like this unless I thought there was a good chance that it _was _James. The body may be unidentifiable, but it was found wrapped in this." He leans down and scoops up a plastic bag used for evidence and holds it out for the other man.

Eyes locked on the contents of the bag, David reaches out an unstable hand and takes it from Gideon. Jason stays quiet as David lowers the bag to his lap and grips it in his hands tightly.

The bag crinkles under his grip, and the fabric within mirrors the action without noise. Inside the plastic is a fluffy blue blanket, with a dark purple border. David recognizes it instantly; it has been fixture within his home since his son was born. He's sure there was many of these baby blankets sold, but his eyes instantly catch on upper left corner where emerald green embroidered word lays.

_James_

With his attention fixed solely on the single word, he doesn't notice when Jason leaves the room. Despite the inner turmoil of emotions within him, David Rossi manages at least one coherent thought: James Rossi is dead.

His little boy is gone.

_**Kinda longer than last chapter, I think. I apologize if there are any discrepancies with the show, but to be honest this is AU, so I'm allowed a few, right?**_

_**Honestly, I know they're OOC now, and I severely hope I will do better when I get to present time in this story, but I don't necessarily find it overly necessary to worry myself sick over keeping them in character. Although, if you have some tips on how I can improve on this, it would be greatly appreciated. **_

_**Next chapter will more likely than not be in James' point of view, just cuz I think some things need to be explained and sorted out. Or I might just add to the confusion. Not sure yet.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N - Eek, sorry, it's been a few days, huh? Then again, I did warn that this wouldn't have regular updates, didn't I? After I post this I really need to work on my other stories, so this'll be moved to the back burners until I post a chapter for one of them. Don't worry, I don't think that'll take too long.**_

_**This chapter is in James - well, Spencer's point of view. I'm afraid this chapter is less than up to par compared with the others, but I'm afraid I found it kinda odd to write a young Spencer Reid. . . sorry.**_

**Disclaimer: I promise you, I don't own anything recognizable. I'm just a sad girl who needs an output for her overactive imagination.**

The world is a very confusing place. One usually learns this at an early age, however, for one such as Spencer Reid, he learns such a thing earlier than most. He's merely six-years-old, but already he finds his mind addled with confusing thoughts and vague, impossible memories.

He's been in this house - so he's been told, anyway - all his life, but it doesn't feel like _home. _Such a place that someone has lived in for all their measly six years of life should be considered home, shouldn't it? No matter how many times Spencer tells himself this, he still can't convince himself that he _belongs _here.

The whole home debacle is only the start of the many intricate and confusing webs that make up the young boy's thoughts. For one so young, Spencer's mind is anything but simple. Another thing that causes his brain to pang with pain and his brow to furrow in unanswered confusion is his name. It's utterly ridiculous, yet it doesn't sound - doesn't _feel_ - like it belongs to him.

Spencer frowns, pondering other names that might suit him better. He runs through the alphabet in his mind, pausing on each letter but quickly discarding them. Three letters stick out like flashing lights in his mind, and he picks them out.

D, J, and R. C also seems important to him in some way, but hard as he might, Spencer can't make a connection between the letters to each other or himself. It frustrates him to no end, but he shakes his head to chase the infuriating thoughts away.

"Spencer! Spencer, baby, come read with me."

The boy's head jerks up and he stares at the faded wooden door of the - his? - bedroom. He gnaws on his lip, unhappy with his name. However, he slips off his bed and pads out the room, softly closing the door behind him before quietly making his way down the hall.

He cautiously pushes into Mother's room, standing uncomfortably by the door. Mother lies on the bed, books scattered around her. It's hard for Spencer to think of her as Mother - it doesn't seem quite right - but it's better than what she originally wanted him to call her: Mom, or Mommy. Both of these titles repulse Spencer in a way he can't fully understand; these names belong to someone else! This woman on the bed isn't Mommy - she isn't even Mother, but Spencer quickly learns not to voice this.

She smiles at him and holds out a hand, waiting for him to crawl up beside her. Spencer does so haltingly, hesitant. He settles beside her over the covers, and obediently picks out _Canterbury Tales _when she asks him to choose a book. As her melodic voice washes over him, filling his ears with Knights, Squires, Monks, and Pardoners, Spencer allows his mind to wander.

Already, Spencer knows he has a good memory - better than most. He remembers every word of every book that the wom - _Mother - _has ever read to him. He can recite word-for-word poems and books - even sheet music. Despite this, he has trouble remembering anything beyond just over a year ago. The first thing he remembers for sure is waking up in an unfamiliar bedroom with a smiling woman sitting beside him.

Other than that, he gets odd flashes at random intervals. He assumes these are broken memories, but he has trouble sorting them into something understandable. He can almost never string the flashes together to form a complete, coherent memory, and the brief times where he _can_, only succeed in confusing him more.

Sometimes he doesn't get flashes of memories, but _feelings _instead. Like his name, or th - _Mother_. Certain objects or sayings makes his brain twinge with familiarity; like when Mother takes him to the park and he sees a chess table, or when Spencer found a box of Legos in his room.

None of it makes any sense, and Spencer often spends nights awake, trying to solve the mystery that his own mind has created. He may not know how or why, but he _does _know that nothing is what it appears to be in his young life. Until he figures out what exactly is wrong with his reality, he has to resign himself to playing along - no matter how strange it seems.

CM

When he's home alone, Spencer watches the news on TV. Mother doesn't let him watch it when she's around; he doesn't know why. The man - who Mother has insisted he call 'Dad' for over a year - pretty much ignores Spencer unless Mother is around. Even then, their interaction seems forced and unpleasant for both parties involved, though it makes Mother happy. He lets him watch anything when it's just them alone, though if anything involving missing children comes up, he immediately switches off the television.

They found a body yesterday. A body of a young boy; maybe six-years-old. Spencer's age. It was also near their street. The news-reporter-lady says that they don't have a way to positively identify the body, but that the FBI is pretty certain who it is. Spencer finds his attention instantly consumed by the short report; he hardly dares to breathe in fear of missing something.

_"Though there is no positive identity of the dead boy, FBI sources have confirmed they strongly suspect the boy is one James David Rossi, who disappeared from his home in Quantico two years ago, and - "_

Spencer's heart was pounding in his ears, drowning out the rest of the news-reporter-lady's words. James David Rossi. . . J, D, R. Three of the letters that stuck out in the alphabet! But why does the name sound _oh so _familiar? What is it about these three names that causes him to become excited and happy and. . . _whole_? Why does 'James' seem to fit much better than 'Spencer'?

His eyes snap back to the screen when the boy's parents are mentioned.

_"In fact, the boy's father is none other than Agent David Rossi, from the FBI itself. It's been said that Agent Rossi was taken off his son's case a little over a year ago, but has been able to keep up with the on-going case and was fully aware that there was a new lead - "_

The screen cuts to footage of two men outside what looks to be a police station - though Spencer can't be too sure. His eyes are instantly drawn to the man on the right, who he assumes - based on the news-reporter-lady's report - is David Rossi. Spencer's breath catches as he stares at the man with a strange look. Flashes of memories assault his mind, but it's nothing he hasn't seen before. Unfortunately, he can't make any more sense out of them then he could the first time.

_"Aren't you tired yet, mio figlio? It's too late to build forts outside. . ."_

The Agent Rossi on the screen finally seems to notice the camera. He hides his scowl poorly as he turns to the other man, gesturing with a jerk of his head at the obnoxious, pestering cameraman.

_"No, no, this piece moves in a L formation. . . There you go! With a fair bit of practice, I'm sure you'll be great at chess some day. . ."_

The screen switches back to the news station, and after a few fake sounding condolences on the death of the little boy, the reporter-people don cheery expressions and delve into the topic of a celebrity divorce turning nasty.

Spencer turns off the TV, not remotely interested in Mr. Actor-Who-Cheated-With-Director, and his divorce to Mrs. Scandal-On-Movie-Set.

He sits in silence for a while, rolling things over in his mind. The flashes have never meant anything significant to him before, but now he feels like he has a face to match them with - which is completely ridiculous. He doesn't know David Rossi! But why does it feel like he should?

CM

That night, Spencer thinks things over again. The more he thinks - and the sleepier he becomes - the more he manages to _almost _convince himself that he _does _in fact know Agent Rossi. He just doesn't know how. Half asleep, he then turns to the dead boy on the news - _James_. He mulls it over. Spencer feels a twinge of regret and sadness as he thinks of the boy - for an odd reason, he feels like he knows him; _knew _him. It's an odd thought because where would he meet a kidnapped boy? All Spencer knows for sure is that _James _doesn't sound like the right name for the boy.

Spencer rather likes the name James. It's better than _Spencer. _It almost. . . suits him? He shakes his head sharply, burying his face in his pillow. His name is _Spencer. _Not James. No matter how right it sounds.

He is Spencer Reid, son of William and Diana Reid, _not _James Rossi, son of a FBI agent. He _isn't. _Then. . . why does it feel like he's lying to himself?

CM

Even though Spencer doesn't like the discomfort of curling up with Mother and listening to her read to him - though it is somewhat soothing - he does enjoy some of the books they read. He has a large bookshelf in his room; from as far back as he can remember - which is only roughly two years - the bottom shelf has been filled with works of Dickens. It had taken awhile for him to gather enough courage to actually crack the spine on any of them. Once he had, it hadn't taken long at all for him to work his way through them all. It was around then that Spencer realized he read faster than other children his age - and most adults.

Whenever he is able to, Spencer sneaks one of the books his mother reads to him and hides it in his room to read at night. After he goes through those, he moves onto any other books he can get his hands on.

Slowly, Spencer begins to build a library of sorts in his head. Every time he finishes a new book, he takes a moment or two to carefully store away the information, quickly running through the book in his head to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything. He never does.

As he continues to think over the dead boy from the news, new flashes of fragments of memories bombards him. He tries to think of how he may know the boy, but draws a blank. All he can say with upmost confidence is that he _did _know the boy, and the name _James _doesn't fit him!

Spencer shifts in his seat, biting the nail of his thumb as he stares blankly at the book in his lap. The words swirl around the pages, mixing up the letters and disrupting the sentences. Spencer doesn't even try to sort them all out; he gave up on reading the book several minutes ago.

His mind is half there with the book, and half in the vault of not-yet-formed memories. He sifts through them, trying to make sense of them but not having much success. He proceeds cautiously, knowing full well that when he dives into the vat of half-memories he is more susceptible to more disorientating flashes.

True to pattern, Spencer's thoughts are soon filled with distorted lines and images, pulsing against his brain and giving him a headache.

_The concrete is cold against his bare skin. . ._

_The rattling of the window as the wind forces its way into the dank room echoes throughout his brain, making him shiver and curl unto himself. . ._

_The painful scraping of the door being dragged against the protesting floor sets his teeth on edge, and he clamps his arms over his ears and presses his face into his knees. . ._

_He is cold, lonely, and scared, and he wants to go home. He wants Mommy and Daddy, not the scary man that comes into the room every other day. . ._

_He's lost track of time, but the door is wrenched open and a small form shoved into the room. The new addition looks around wildly, eyes wide and terrified. . ._

_The light straggles through the cracks in the wall, but he knows better to think it's sunlight. There is no sun down here - he cannot be sure there is a sun anywhere anymore. . ._

_The dirt is stuck between his toes, and he wiggles them, frowning. It hurts when the dirt falls into the scrapes and cuts on his feet and legs, but it is unavoidable. The other little boy lets out a quiet wail before sniffling and falling silent. . ._

_"Hi," a rasping whisper emerges. He jumps, eyes swinging to the other small boy; the newcomer. He has never spoken before. "How long have you been here?" Good. He doesn't ask for his name like nothing is wrong. He replies robotically with an 'a while', and hopes the boy will leave it alone. He doesn't. . ._

_He sucks on his lip, scrunching his nose at the metallic taste of blood. . ._

_His cheek is painful and swollen. He touches it gingerly, but it still stings. The other boy is crying again; he hasn't learnt to never show his tears. "Mama," the boy cries, sniffling. He watches the sobbing boy sadly, remembering when he stopped calling out for his mommy and daddy. . ._

_"I don't know your name," the boy hiccups, scrubbing his eyes. He blinks at him owlishly, stunned to hear him speak again. He had been silent for so long that he thought he was gone - like the others. The boy speaks up again, "I'm Spencer Reid."_

_"James Rossi," he replies. . ._

Spencer jerks as he comes into full awareness again. The book is on the ground, face-down and the pages curled. He shakily picks it back up, straightening the thin pages and snapping the book shut. These fragments of memories make more sense than the others, but they still confuse him. What do they mean? The other little boy, he looked like the boy from the news! But in the memory, he said his name was Spencer Reid. . . and he said his name was James Rossi! But he's not. _He's _Spencer Reid, not the dead boy. . . right?

These thoughts are confusing and they hurt to consider. Why would Mother and so-called Dad lie to him? Wouldn't he remember if he is really James Rossi? _Is _he starting to remember? Is that what this is? Memories of being James, not Spencer?

For one with such a good memory that he can remember every word he's read, Spencer's scarily uncertain on his past. He only has a few memories, and they only go as far back as two years - even these are questionable at best.

No. He _can't _be James Rossi. For one, he'd remember if he is. Two, James Rossi is dead - even the FBI says so! Three, Mother treats him like her own son, and what reason does she have to lie to him about his own identity? The flashes mean nothing. They're just results of an overworked imagination. How convenient that he only starts getting memories of the dead boy _after _he sees his picture on television.

Spencer Reid needs to forget the flashes. They mean nothing.

* * *

He's older now; almost eight. His birthday is in a few days. He's almost managed to completely forget the lying flashes. He's finished all the books in the house, and has started walking to the library. It's a long walk, but at least he gets exercise. He doesn't have much room to exercise in at the moment, however.

Spencer has never been particularly afraid of confined spaces. He doesn't really like them, sure, but he's never been _scared _of them. He still isn't, but he's sure that if he stays in this closet much longer he will be.

Tentatively, Spencer tries to twist the doorknob and push the closet door open. It doesn't budge. He sighs and slides down the wall, resting his head on his knees. He's locked in; it certainly isn't the first time, and he doubts it'll be the last.

He'll be stuck here until Dad gets home, and even then, who knows how long it'll take before he notices that Mom has trapped him in here again. He has hours either way, so he might as well get comfortable.

It isn't Mom's fault. She just isn't feeling well again. It's Spencer's fault, really, for startling her. He should've made more noise before approaching her. She is just acting in self-preservation. Just being paranoid.

It's okay, Spencer's already finished all his homework, so he's not missing anything important. Really. His new Geoffrey Chaucer book can wait. If his mom doesn't nick it again, of course. Which she might. But that's okay too. Because he can just ask for it back when she feels more like herself.

Spencer might not even find being stuck in a locked closet all that bad if he had a light. As it is, the closet is completely dark. It's almost suffocating. Which is ridiculous; who ever heard of being suffocated by the _dark_? Nonetheless, Spencer dislikes the feeling of darkness skittering up his spine and seeping into his clothes. He knows darkness is not substantial, but that is of little help when it feels like it is attacking him.

Spencer tries to calm his breathing, knowing that having a panic-attack right now will only help in making matters worse. He's not afraid of the dark. He just doesn't like it. However, he's worried that if he spends much more time in dark closets with no why to escape into the light, he might very well grow a deep fear of the dark - if only for the memories associated with it.

He attempts to stifle the tremors that dance across his skin, ignoring the goose pimples that spring up on his arms. His throat feels tight, and his breathing is labored. He pulls his knees even closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and ducking his head. His eyes are wide open, but it's so dark that it's the same as if they're closed. His feet are cold and his toes are curled in his odd socks; one bright green with little, fat frogs with googly eyes on it, and the other vibrant orange, a scene of a haunted house playing out upon it.

Spencer loves his socks, though his dad disapproves. Mom indulges him his socks, the only sign of her confusion being a slight shake of the head or a quiet clucking of the tongue. His toes are cold, and he unwraps his arms from his knees to squeeze them in a half-hearted attempt to warm them. Struck with sudden inspiration, he stretches out his legs before tucking them under him, sitting on his feet. His toes don't take too long to warm up, but now he's faced with another problem.

He can no longer hide his face in his knees. He feels strangely exposed. Spencer sighs and rubs his face with the heels of his hands, pressing against his eyes. When he takes his hands away, he blinks the spots from his vision. Not much to see; the closet is still completely dark.

He wishes he has a watch or some way to tell time so that he can at least guess at how long his father might take to get home and free him. Maybe his mother might even regain her senses before he does and free him herself. Doubtful, but not impossible. Spencer leans his head against the wall, glad that his eyes have finally adjusted somewhat to the non-existent lighting.

He can now see the vague outline of objects in the closet; mostly clothes, but a few old and forgotten books are lying on the floor as well. He briefly wonders how long he'll be stuck in here, but quickly discards it as a futile thought. He'll be free when he's free. No use in driving himself mad thinking about it.

Spencer must have fallen asleep at one point, because he is startled awake by a sharp knocking on the closet door. He blinks groggily, taking a second to clear the sleep from his brain before shuffling forwards and rapping the wooden door with his knuckles.

The doorknob jiggles before the door is jerked open, and Spencer shields his eyes from the sudden harsh light. He's sure he hears an exasperated sigh before a big hand settles on his arm and gently pulls him to his feet. Spencer stands unsteadily, eyes wide as he stares up at his father.

"Your mother's in bed," the man says quietly, waving a hand at the doorway. "It's late. You should go to your room, Spencer."

Whenever he says Spencer's name, he always seems hesitant, and never meets his eyes. Spencer gets the feeling he should know why this is, but he pushes the feeling away and ignores it. He nods and moves away from his father's reach, slowly turning and walking out the door and to his room.

He flits his gaze over his bed, where he had dropped his new book before the whole closet-fiasco. It's there, right where he left it. Spencer sighs in relief and carefully closes his door behind him, slipping into his bed and flicking on his bedside lamp. Lifting up the front cover of the book, Spencer shut his eyes, savoring the feeling of starting a new book - a new adventure.

His eyes skim over the words, taking only a few seconds to absorb and correctly interpret them as sentences and paragraphs. He's determined to at least finish a good quarter of the book before sleeping, though it may prove difficult since his eyes already feel heavy and his mind is beginning to drift.

Spencer is victorious in his endeavor; he manages a handful more than a quarter before falling asleep over his book, cheek sticking to the pages.

CM

Time passes. Whether or not you want it to or not, it passes - slowly or quickly, days morph into weeks and weeks will turn into months. For one David Rossi, it passes painfully slow, while for Spencer Reid it moves by smoothly and irrelevantly.

Eventually, the flashes that inject themselves into Spencer's mind fade and he is able to almost forget about the dead boy and odd memories that make no sense. He still gets strange feelings that seem to be something akin to familiarity, but he's getting pretty good at ignoring them and moving on.

He also forgets the hesitance he felt towards his parents. He no longer has a problem with calling his mother 'Mom' and his father 'Dad'. He moves on and lives his life as Spencer Reid.

He forgets.

_**Yup. Confusing, right? The little 'flashes' of memories weren't supposed to be in sequence, so it's okay to be a little (or a lot) confused if you were trying to follow them. I hope it wasn't too bad though!**_

_**You know what's funny? The last few episodes of Criminal Minds, I've been specifically watching Reid and Rossi interaction because. . . well, isn't it obvious? Anyway, I've noticed that the ones I've been watching recently show quite a fair bit of bonding between them! I mean, seriously, whenever they do that I just picture how awesome it would be if this could actually be an episode.**_

_**Anyway, I really appreciate reviews! **_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N - I know it took me ages to update! So sorry! I just started school again, and they didn't hesitate to pile on the homework. Plus, I'm in the process of switching from regular maths class to advanced maths, and it's very confusing and hectic. Again, I apologize.**_

**Disclaimer: I promise, I own nothing recognizable. Honest.**

It's twelve years after the abduction of his son when David Rossi finally accepts the offered early retirement. He spends his now-free time writing books on profiling and past cases and then after he finishes that, he goes on numerous book tours and signings as well as beginning to give lectures. He becomes famous to those involved with reading about gruesome killers and unraveling the inner workings of their minds.

It's an odd coping mechanism; suppressing thoughts of his own son's murder by writing in-depth about others. He knows it is not healthy, but it most certainly helps. Whenever he falters, whenever he hesitates, all he must do is raise his gaze from his computer screen only a few inches. Two things reside on the wall above his computer; two things that have an equal effect on him.

The first is a worn piece of paper; thin and ripped as if it has been folded and pulled out of a cramped pocket many times - which it has. David has mixed feelings about this paper - it's a bittersweet reminder of James. It's the picture he had drawn all those years ago; the one that might have prevented his abduction if he had just _shown _it to him. Yet it's the last thing he drew: the most recent thing David has of his late son.

Beside it hangs a thin golden bracelet: the chain tiny and the clasp delicate. Three hearts hang from it, each with a name carefully engraved upon it. _Connie, George, _and _Alicia._ He took the case of their parents' murders only a year after James's death. He had thrown himself into it - in the hopes of distracting himself from his grief over his son. However, his plan had backfired when the case had gone unsolved. He was left with not only his son's death plaguing him, but also the three children's case as well.

He feels as if losing his son has hindered his ability to be a profiler, and this thought simmers for years until he finally accepts the retirement. He leaves just before the trial teams of the BAU become a sure thing, and the unit begins to work in groups. He still has his doubts that such a dynamic will work, but whenever Jason contacts him - which grows less and less frequent as the years go by - he assures him that it is going well.

CM

It's seven years after retirement when Gideon contacts him after a long time to enthuse about a new addition to his team. David remains dubious, especially towards Jason's team - his doubts, in his mind, were solidified after the tragic death of six of Jason's colleagues a few years before - but allows Gideon to tell him about the youngest agent to join the FBI. David can't completely deny it: his interest is somewhat piqued.

He doesn't listen to a lot of what Jason twatters on about, but he picks up a few things here and there. He remembers Aaron Hotchner - apparently he's a Unit Chief now. There's a Technical Analysis too - P-something Garcia. Gideon expresses his concern about her, saying how odd she behaves and some of the 'techie junk' she comes up with. Jason talks the most about the new addition - Spencer Reid. He's supposedly some sort of genius, graduated high-school at an abnormal age. He has quirks and doesn't do so well in social situations. David, though he hasn't ever met the agent, doesn't think the poor boy will last.

David so much as says so to Jason, but the other man waves off his concern. According to him, this Reid agent is stronger than he seems, and is a great asset to the team. That's the last time David hears from Gideon.

By the time Jason Gideon leaves the BAU for good, David Rossi is quite famous for his works. He has annual book signings and tours, and is well-known around the world. It's ten years after he takes the retirement when Erin Strauss calls him and offers him his old job back - this time, working with Gideon's old team. If it had been one of the years before, David would probably have turned it down. As it is, Strauss calls the year the three children don't answer his Christmas calls. David takes this as a sign.

So he accepts the offer. He doesn't even get the time to be properly introduced to the team before they're thrown into a case. All he gets is a hasty introduction from Hotch, giving the other agents' titles and names. Finally, David gets to see the face belonging to Jason's praises - Spencer Reid. The kid has soft dark hair that he can't seem to decide whether he wants to tuck behind his ears or let it hang in his face. There's something about his face that retains the image of innocence and gives him a young look.

David lingers on the agent's eyes. Chestnut-brown irises. They remind him of - who's he kidding? Everything about the agent reminds him of - James. He packs down the sorrowful feeling blooming within him - maybe working with this team - with this _agent _- will be harder than he thought. Another thought strikes him. Hadn't Jason said that the kid was twenty-three, twenty-four when he first joined? That will make him twenty-six now. He's even the same age as James!

Before David can recant his decision to retake the job - he can't work with this agent. Not now. Not with him having so much in common with his son - the agent starts taking. Spencer Reid talks as fast as lightning, striking a topic and refusing to drop it until a better one arises or until one of his teammates snaps him out of it. He's read David's books - he has questions. It's more than David can handle, and he is eternally grateful when Hotch cuts Agent Reid off and the kid falls silent, looking embarrassed.

If Agent Morgan's chuckle is anything to go by, this is a regular occurrence. Agent Reid must ramble a lot. David supposes he is about to find out, since it's time for the case briefing. If he's going to be working with the kid, he's bound to get to know him - whether he wants to or not.

Reid walks in front of him on the way to the round table room, and David momentarily pauses when the agent's trouser legs hitch up the tiniest amount at the ankles and reveal odd socks. Oh, boy. How cruel of the universe to have him working with an agent that has so much in common with his late son.

CM

To David's surprise, once he gets to know the kid, he isn't half bad. Sure, he may talk just a little too much, just a little too fast. Yes, his endless facts and statistics grate on one's nerves until they are needed on a case. Okay, the kid drinks _way _to much caffeine and constantly acts like he's on a damn sugar high, but despite it all, David finds himself more amused by his 'quirks' than annoyed. Even his impossible similarities to James don't unsettle David as much as he imagines they will. In fact, they're somewhat. . . comforting. Screw emotional setbacks and hindering coping machinations - at least this one's better than digging into the minds of convicted serial killers.

Although, David _can _do without the kid's insistent attraction of danger. He's a trouble-magnet, and serial killers seem to spring up in his wake. This bothers David more than it probably should - even though Reid's on the same team as David, that surely doesn't warrant such concern - but he puts it down as the fact that since Reid's the youngest agent on the team, he unconsciously brings out the protective instincts in everybody. Especially the women - though, David notes, Hotch doesn't seem to be completely immune to it either. Morgan hardly even attempts to hide it.

David's been on the team for a fair amount of time when he finally gets the chance to put to rest at least one of his burdens. With help from Morgan and Prentiss, David can finally close the case of the parents of the three children's murder. It's an immense relief to be able to tell Connie, George, and Alicia what really happened to their parents, but at the same time it's almost bitter. They now have some sort of closure: they know who killed their parents and why - whereas David still lacks such for his son's murder. Oh, he knows who killed James, and he's pretty sure he knows why, but he was never given the satisfaction of seeing Michaels being taken away - or down, for that matter.

David often dwells on his boy's killer - although, since he has rejoined the BAU these times have grown further and further apart. Jason had not gone into detail in the death of Gary Michaels, other than saying that his unidentified body had been found only shortly before they had discovered James. Then again, Jason had not told David much on his son's death, either. David is not particularly bothered with the death of Michaels - as far as he's concerned, he got what he deserved - but he supposes it would've been nice to know Michaels was rotting away in prison. He's more curious about Michaels' _cause _of death. Though it has not been said as much, David knows that he was more than likely murdered. He almost wants to know who by.

He briefly considers enlisting the help of the team on the matter, but quickly discards the notion. There are serial killers to catch; there's no time to waste on murderous pedophiles who are long since dead. So David deals with his musings alone, in silence.

CM

The BAU undergoes some major changes concerning members of the unit, and David is there for all of them. The first, and hardest, is the supposed death of Emily Prentiss. Throughout her 'death' David has an inkling that not everything is quite what it seems. When he sees how distraught the others are - especially Reid - he seriously considers confiding in them about his suspicions. He eventually rules against it - it would be cruel and unfair to give them false hope if there is cause for none. Still, it's hard to see their suffering.

It's even harder to see their anger when Prentiss comes back from the dead. Garcia's simply overjoyed to have her back, though there is an underlying layer of hurt in the women's relationship - that much, David can tell. Morgan's briefly outraged - completely understandable - but then his relief and joy overtake him. Even though the agent laughs it off and hides it behind jokes of Prentiss's death, David knows Morgan's feeling far more hurt and betrayed than he's letting on.

Personally, David thinks Reid's reaction is the most heartbreaking. He - like the others - are utterly ecstatic when Emily first returns. But then his happiness dwindles down and leaves him with suspicions and doubts. He grows angry, but hides it at first. Despite his best efforts, David can easily read what he's feeling. To him, Reid always has been easier to read than the others - he doesn't know why.

Though he doesn't agree with the genius' method of coping with his anger, he can't rile himself up enough to be disapproving or completely disappointed with the young man. Really, his reaction is quite understandable - even if his hostility towards JJ is a little harsh.

Even though David is pretty much cornered into it by Hotch, he does feel a smidgen of pride - and relief - when his forced cooking lesson helps to put JJ and Reid in the right direction towards forgiveness.

Then, of course, JJ leaves. Rossi takes her replacement, Seaver, under his wing, remembering her father's case. Surprisingly, Reid isn't too begrudging to welcome her - even though he, and the others, are clearly sorely disappointed about JJ's absence. David is utterly relieved by this development, though a little suspicious of its sources.

Seaver doesn't last too long. She leaves and JJ comes back from the Pentagon. After all these changes, David is surprised that no one's head is spinning. But the changes don't end there. Prentiss leaves the BAU again - only this time she goes to England rather than a graveyard. Alex Blake takes her place. Again, Reid takes this quite well - maybe because he already knows this agent, and has given guest lectures with her. The others cope quite well with it as well.

David begins to view the team as an odd, dysfunctional but capable family - who just happens to investigate horrible murders together. Despite this, David doesn't forget his other family - the real deal. The team still don't know about James, and he intends to keep it this way. Bringing it up will just raise too many questions. However, they do - or did - know about Carolyn. How couldn't they after she took her own life? David hadn't taken long off work after that - preferring to work even harder, like he had when James was killed. He thinks about it more than he would like - how he's lost not only his son, but also his first wife, maybe even his only true love, as sappy as that sounds.

It's a depressing thought, but true nonetheless. Perhaps that's why David relies on the team to be his sort of family, no matter how aloof he may seem. Little does he know that his two so called 'families' are about to collide in a way impossible and unbelievable.

* * *

"That _can't _be good for you," Morgan exclaims, disgusted. He gazes at Reid's desk with distain. "Four cups of coffee, kid? Really? It's not even ten in the morning!"

Reid peers up at him from the rim of his current coffee mug, eyes bright and clearly displaying the level of energy pent up inside him as a result of so much caffeine. David can't help but privately agree with Morgan; but only because he sees an extra two cups in the rubbish bin beside Reid's desk.

"I don't drink that much," Reid protests indignantly, lowering the mug to his desk. "This is only my third one! Those are from last night - I had to have something to keep me awake, what with all that paperwork we had to do! Plus, _somebody _decided it'd be best if I did their files for them."

Morgan raises his hands in surrender in answer to Reid's accusatory glare. "Alright, alright. Maybe I did choose to lighten my workload - but only because I know you breeze through those things so fast! I can't believe you actually _like _paperwork." He shakes his head.

"Better paperwork than having to chase down murdering idiots," Reid replies bitingly. He returns his gaze back to his desk, brow furrowing as he attempts to figure out which one of the many coffee cups on his desk is the one from a few minutes ago. "Where did that coffee go?" he mutters to himself.

"Hey," Morgan argues, "not all murderers are idiots." He leans over and picks up a coffee cup, shaking it to reveal the telltale sloshing of the well-craved beverage. "You know, for a kid with an eidetic memory, you're terrible at picking out coffee among a sea of coffee."

Reid snatches it back. "It is _not _a sea of coffee," he murmurs mutinously, sipping the caffeine greedily. "More like a. . . small _pond._"

Morgan snorts. "Whatever, pretty boy," he says, as if to humor the younger agent. "I still say you need to lay off the caffeine. That stuff isn't good for you in large amounts."

"Actually," Reid begins in his 'lecture-tone', eyes sparkling in anticipation of sharing his immense knowledge - or showing off, David isn't too sure. "Recent studies have uncovered that caffiene, which originates from the word - "

"You know what?" Morgan asks rhetorically, pulling away from the desk he has been leaning against. "Forget I brought it up. I don't want to know. Keep drinking coffee and get caffeine poisoning. See if I care - it'll be your own fault."

Reid frowns and stares at him. "If I had caffeine poisoning, there'd be obvious symptoms, and I'd stop drinking coffee so as to avoid caffeine overdose. Caffeine remains in the normal person's system for about four hours, and the normal symptoms that occur after drinking large amounts of coffee at one time - i.e. restlessness, increased heartbeat, nausea, anxiety, heart palpitations, and insomnia - are early signs of too much caffeine, but not necessarily caffeine _poisoning. _Of course, if the symptoms get worse, such as sweating, dizziness, and vomiting, then cardiac arrest can occur. Different people have different tolerance levels, therefore making it difficult to ascertain what amount of caffeine will cause caffeine overdose, and since I drink a lot of coffee, my tolerance is probably a bit higher than most. However, generally a dose between 250 to 500mg can produce mild to moderate symptoms."

Morgan blinks at him, then shakes his head. "You're a lost cause," he says, sounding sorely disappointed. Reid scowls and turns back to his coffee, muttering darkly. David watches them with silent amusement, standing off to the side, near the elevators.

"Guys," JJ calls from the walkway, leaning over the railing, "we have a case."

The atmosphere in the room dampens immediately. Morgan straightens, teasing attitude gone as he makes his way to the round-table room. Reid sighs and steps out of his chair, looking mournfully at his scattering of coffee cups before sweeping his arm across his desk, dumping them all into the rubbish bin. He spins around, his current coffee cup clutched tightly in his hand, and slowly traces Morgan's steps. David follows closely behind him.

CM

"We have an icky one," Garcia states as they settle into their chairs. "Well, I mean, ickier than the usual icky - which, if you think about, is pretty icky." Hotch sends her a look over top of his tablet, and she quickly turns to the screen behind her. "Anyway, the Las Vegas Police Department has recently connected eleven murders, spanning the length of the last twenty-five years, and believe that they were committed by the same sick-o."

David becomes tight-lipped as he looks over the case files, the facts bringing to mind another case - one that he is reminded of many times when there are even the slightest similarities in the cases they are currently working on.

"Eleven murders in twenty-five years?" Hotch clarifies. "Our UnSub's clearly patient."

"Yeah," Garcia jumps in, pressing a button on the remote to make two windows pop up on the screen, both newspaper clippings. "All the murders occurred on the same date, just the number of years in between changing. The bodies were discovered only by chance, and were well hidden in construction and dump sites."

"What date were they killed on?" Morgan inquires, not taking his eyes away from his tablet screen.

Garcia glances down at her notes. "Uh, May 5th. Always May 5th. And here's the real kicker: all the victims were registered pedophiles."

David jolts. He flicks his gaze upwards, hoping that nobody has noticed his reaction. Morgan is almost glaring at the tablet in his grasp, eyes grazing over the facts. Blake's tablet is lying on the table in front of her, and she's staring at the screen behind Garcia with an intense gaze. JJ holds her tablet loosely in one hand, flicking her finger over the surface of the screen. Reid, sitting across from JJ and in between Blake and Morgan, is chewing on his bottom lip, his coffee cup halfway up to its destination. Hotch, however, is studying David, who shifts uncomfortably and pretends to focus on the case in front of him.

"Who was the first murder victim?" Reid asks absent-mindedly, taking a drag of his coffee.

Garcia clicks another button, and a picture appears up on the screen, in between the newspaper clippings. "It's not known for certain, but the local police believe that the earliest found victim is one Gary Michaels, who's body was found in a postponed construction site around twenty-five years ago."

David's jaw clenches as he twitches again, fingers tightening over the tablet. He can practically feel Hotch's eyes boring into his back, but he ignores him and forces himself to look up at the picture.

"The bodies were all found with the same injuries: bruises surrounding the face and chest, cuts and scrapes, a few cracked or broken ribs, and even a broken bone or two," Garcia informs them, bringing up more pictures, these of the dead bodies.

"How did they die?" JJ speaks up. "Were they beaten to death?"

Garcia looks sick as she struggles to swallow. "Uh, no, no, they weren't. The cause of death varies for the victims - some did die of their injuries, but only one or two of them. The earlier victims, especially in the case of Gary Michaels, were killed by blunt force trauma to the head. The coroner's report says they were probably hit with something like a baseball bat."

"Eleven murders of registered pedophiles," Morgan says, leaning back in his chair. "We could be looking at somebody taking justice into their own hands. Doesn't think the law's doing enough, so they do it instead."

"Either way, we're looking at a serial killer," Hotch notes, putting down his tablet. "Get your go-bags, wheels up in forty." As everyone stands and gathers their things, Hotch turns to the agent next to him. "Dave," he says, inclining his head towards the door.

David suppresses a sigh and follows the other man out the door, ignoring the curious stares he receives from Reid and JJ.

CM

"What's wrong?" Hotch asks immediately, hardly even waiting for David to take a seat in his office. "Back there, in the briefing, you reacted. Why?"

"We're dealing with eleven murders and haven't been called in sooner. I'd of thought everyone reacted," David replies mildly.

Hotch doesn't respond, but stares at him disbelievingly.

David debates whether to reveal the truth or not, but with Hotch still studying him with his usual unnerving intensity, he decides on the former. "We're working a case with the victims being eleven registered pedophiles, and they were all killed on May 5th." David looks up to meet Hotch's questioning gaze. "Exactly two months before the anniversary of my son's abduction."

Aaron leans back in shock, eyes wide and calculating. "I. . . thought you said you didn't have any children from your former marriages," he says finally.

"I don't," David answers quietly. "Not anymore."

Hotch takes a breath, understanding flooding his eyes. "Oh," is all he says.

Seeing the question in the agent's eyes, David bites his lip and prepares to explain. "You know that my first wife was Carolyn. We had a son, James. Born 1982. . . he'd be nearly thirty-one by now. When James was four, he was taken straight from his bedroom, right under Carolyn and I's noses. We didn't know he was gone until the next morning. When we did, the FBI got involved - mostly because of my position. Back then, the BAU profilers worked independently, outside of teams. Gideon was the lead on James's case. We didn't find anything for two years." Davis pauses, flooded with the memories. "Uh, when we finally got a match on the DNA left behind, it was revealed to belong to. . . a registered pedophile."

David had been on the brink of telling Hotch about the connection to Gary Michaels, but had decided against it at the last second. He isn't sure why, but he isn't quite ready to reveal that piece of information.

"Jason wouldn't let me come with him to take the guy down. When he got back a few days later, he told me that the guy was dead, so justice couldn't be served. He also told me that he found - " David looks down at the floor, heaving a breath. "Gideon told me that they also found the body of a six-year-old boy in the abductor's house. There was no way to identify the body, but it was - there was enough evidence to suggest that it was James."

Hotch gives a moment of silence and thought. "I'm sorry," he says gently. "You know, you don't have to work this case with us, not if it's too hard for you."

David shakes his head. "It was a long time ago," he tells Aaron, looking back up. "It's fine. I can work the case. Wheels up in forty, did you say? We better hurry, or the jet will leave without us."

He stands and walks to the door, opening it and waiting for Hotch to join him - which he does, albeit slowly. He gives David a meaningful look, stating clearly that he knows very well that David's just putting on a front, but is willing to go along with it as long as it's what he wants.

"You can pull yourself out any time," he reminds him. "Just say the word."

David nods and the two grab their bags and head out to the jet, where the rest of the team is waiting. Morgan grins as they board the plane, stretching out in his chair. "Let's go to Vegas!"

_**Eh, not great, but it's the best I got. Sorry if I got some of the show's facts wrong - I didn't really get into it until near the end of season 7, and only know stuff from earlier seasons from reruns, which don't show in order. Sorry guys! The only way I have any idea of which rerun episodes come first, is judging by Reid's hair. :)**_

_**Please review, guys! **_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N - Oh jeez, I'm a horrible person. It's been what? 22 days? SOOOOO SORRY! All I can say is that I had a lot of trouble writing this chapter! When I finally finished it (about a week ago) my computer ran out of battery, and refused to charge - the plug-in wouldn't . . . plug in. Turns out the little thingy in the plug-in hole was broken. So I had to rewrite EVERYTHING on my aunt's computer. It was sooooo annoying. Forgive me? :(**_

**Disclaimer: I promise, I don't own anything at all recognizable - but if anyone's offering for under $500, I'd take it!**

Reid, his long legs stretched out towards the seat opposite him, drums his long fingers against the table-top in an absent-minded rhythm as he unnecessarily glances over his files. Morgan, on the other side of the table from the young agent, conspicuously eyes the fresh mug of coffee sitting before Reid. Finally it seems like he's had enough.

"Oh, come on! This is excessive, even for you," he sighs, gesturing to the mug. Reid slides it closer to him protectively, turning squinted eyes at him. "Lay off, would ya? Like we need you filled with more caffeine."

Reid opens his mouth to retort, but Hotch cuts across their looming argument. "Morgan, leave him alone." Reid looks momentarily victorious - and then: "But I agree with Morgan, Reid. You've drunk enough coffee today."

Spencer gapes at Hotch, eyes holding a look of intense betrayal. "What?" he asks, fingers digging into the sides of his mug.

JJ laughs and nudges him with his foot, flipping her hair out of her eyes. "I think he's cutting you off, Spence," she tells him. "Honestly, I'm surprised he hasn't done this before."

Reid scowls, gulping his scalding coffee before Morgan snatches it away. "Hey!" he protests, reaching out a hand to take it back.

"Nuh uh, pretty boy," Morgan says, his lips twitching as he holds the mug out of the desperate agent's reach. "You heard Hotch. You're done for the day."

"But it's only eleven!" Reid whines, looking desperate. "I need my coffee!"

"Relax," Morgan chuckles, "you won't drop dead from lack of caffeine. I promise you can function without coffee, Reid. You just need to stop chugging the stuff."

Reid scowls again, slumping in his chair. "I don't chug it," he argues, "and I know I can function without it – I just won't be as alert as usual. You'll be missing out on key facts that may very well help solve the case. You're really just adding to your own workload by banning me from coffee."

Hotch quirks an eyebrow at him, a half-smile smothered behind his thin-pressed lips. "You'll be fine," he assures. "Reid, your brain-cells won't die off one-by-one if you go a day without coffee. Morgan, stop teasing him. Let's focus back on the case at hand."

JJ smirks silently, rolling her eyes as she turns back to the case files. Spencer sighs and casts a longing look at the coffee machine, but returns to their work when Blake throws him an amused glance.

David remains silent during the entire exchange, too occupied with thoughts of the case to be amused by the conversation. Garcia pops up on the screens around the jet, looking her usual eccentric bright self.

"Jeez, woman," Morgan exclaims when her face appears on the screen in front of him. "Man, have you got off timing. You just missed Hotch ordering Reid to lay off the sugar-and-coffee heart-attack maker!"

Garcia faux gasps, pushing her glasses closer to her face. "Ooh, how did that go down?" Spencer mutters darkly in the corner, and Garcia laughs. "Nevermind, I can guess. Anyway, if you will all do me the favor of giving me your attention, you will see three video-links appearing on your tablets – Reid, just lean over someone's shoulder or something. I can't bring it up on the main screens."

Spencer frowns but obliges, moving closer to JJ, who shifts to allow him better access to her tablet screen.

"Okay, so remember how I said that all the victims were killed on the same date?" Garcia begins, clicking at her computer keyboard as she studies a different computer. "Well, since all the bodies were found merely by chance, the only way to know _for sure _when they died was from the autopsy reports . . . and the videos."

"Videos?" Morgan questions, glancing up from his tablet. Garcia nods, eyes flitting over to their window screen.

"Yeah, this creep decided to film the murders. Um . . . the Las Vegas police didn't find any videos on the first few victims, but after that . . . the UnSub has decided to give us a front-row seat to his awful hobby. In the case of the first two victims, Gary Michaels and Kristopher Gulls, the only evidence they have that suggests the date of their deaths are the coroner's reports, which only say the estimated amount of time the body has been around due to the degree of decomposition, and footage from security cameras.

"Gary Michaels was last seen in front of his house in a homey little Las Vegas neighborhood putting out the trash. He was caught on the security camera on the top of a lamp-post near where he lived, and after he went inside he was never seen again."

"They didn't see anyone enter his house?" Reid asks, furrowing his brows. "It looks as if the camera is positioned right outside his front door – the UnSub would've had a tough time sneaking past it."

"Uh, yeah, see that's just the thing," Garcia comments, the fuzzy giant butterfly in her hair bobbing up and down. "At around midnight the footage cuts out. No one is caught entering or leaving Michaels' house."

"Does this mean our UnSub is good with technology?" Blake suggests, leaning back in her seat.

"No," Garcia answers promptly. "The wires were cut. Anyone could do that, really."

"Garcia, what about the second victim?" Hotch asks slowly, glancing up to the screen.

Penelope hums as she taps at her keyboard, sucking in her sparkly-pink lip. "It looks like Gulls was last seen in a public park near his home, walking his dog – a border collie, for future reference. He was caught in a video being made by a couple at the park. He was just in the background, but it was clearly him. Ah . . . yeah, the video is dated May 5th, 1990."

"That's two years after the first murder," JJ observes, sounding confused. "That's quite the patience for an UnSub whose preferred technique is bashing the victims' heads in."

Reid shifts in his seat, freeing his hands to move them as he usually does when explaining something. "The kills indicate rage in the UnSub – it's most likely that someone close to him is, or had been, involved with a pedophile in some way. The fact that he's able to restrain himself in such a way as to go years without killing probably means that the person involved with a pedophile is no longer around – otherwise, the UnSub wouldn't be able to wait until killing."

"How do we know it's a man?" Blake intervenes, clicking her tongue. "It could be an angry mother or sister."

"Typically a female would choose to exact revenge in some other way," Spencer tells her, furrowing his brows as a lock of hair falls into his face. "They wouldn't outright kill the victim like they've done here. First there would be small incidents leading up to it: items gone missing, vandalism, threatening letters."

"How do we know none of that happened?" Blake objects mildly, chewing on the tip of a random pen. "Maybe it wasn't reported."

"All the victims lived in tight-knit communities. Everyone knows everyone. Someone would've known if they were being harassed," Hotch finalizes. "Reid's right; the UnSub is more likely than not a male."

"So we're looking for a man who might have family who've had run-ins with registered pedophiles," David sighs. "Not really much of a lead."

Giving him a strange look, Aaron puts down his tablet. "Hopefully we'll know more once we see the most recent crime scene and get all the facts. Garcia, who was the latest victim?"

Jolted out of her silent watching, Garcia perks up in her swivel chair. "Jaxon Ranche! His body was found a little while ago when the local park was torn up to make room for a new apartment complex. Looks like he was killed about a month ago . . . oh."

Morgan's head snaps up and his eyebrows rise to his hairline. "What is it, Babygirl?"

"Jaxon Ranche was last seen – and most likely killed – on May 5th, almost a week after the disappearance of a young girl in the neighborhood: Cassidy Monroe. Her body was only just found a few days ago, hidden in one of Ranche's outside barn buildings. She was slight, blonde and around eight years old – exactly Ranche's type." Throughout the entire speech, Garcia's expression grows steadily more disgusted.

"So maybe someone knew who took Cassidy," JJ sighs, running a hand through her hair, "and decided to bypass the police and take matters into their own hands."

"How is it that this UnSub knows where these guys live, and move around unnoticed? How would he know that Ranche was the one that took Cassidy?" Blake questions, throwing her tablet back down on the table.

"All of the victims were registered as pedophiles and sex offenders," Reid begins, bringing his legs back in from their stretched position, "meaning that they were all listed on the police files. Now it's fairly simple to look up these lists and discover who's living in your neighborhood. The UnSub probably uses these lists to choose his next victim, and injects themselves into some part of their lives so that their presence isn't so abnormal and noticeable when they decide to kill them. The abduction of Cassidy Monroe is probably what set them off."

"If Ranche was killed a month ago," Morgan starts with a frown, "then why did they wait so long to bring us in? They must've known it was all connected. Why now?"

"Cassidy's body was found a few days ago," JJ answers quietly. "I guess that's the prompting they needed. I suppose LVPD didn't really care about the deaths of the sex offenders and pedophiles enough to bother us with the case."

Silence descends upon the jet as the team finally reads the files in depth – all but Rossi, who remains staring out the window next to his seat, deep in thought. They'll be landing soon, he can tell from the view out the window, but if he had to guess he'd say it'll be maybe another fifteen or twenty minutes. He's pulled out of his reverie when he hears and senses someone sliding into the seat across from him.

David glances up to see Reid looking at him in concern. Rossi slides his gaze to the other side of the plane, where the others are still pouring over the files. "Done reading?" he asks lightly, nodding to where his files lay discarded in front of his vacated seat.

"I finished before we came on the jet," Spencer replies promptly, not noticing Morgan's snort in the background. Reid lets them sit in silence for a minute, pretending to intensely study the wall. Then he shifts and leans forward, folding his arms on the table separating them. "Are you okay?" he inquires quietly.

David raises his eyebrows and slowly pushes his work away from him, falling back against his seat and threading his hands together. "Why wouldn't I be?" he counters.

Reid shrugs and keeps his eyes locked on the table-top. "I don't know. It's just that . . . since we got the case – which was approximately one and a half hours ago – you've only spoken about two or three times."

"You've been keeping track?"

"I don't have to. Eidetic memory," Reid says matter-of-fact, raking the hair out of his eyes.

"Doesn't that get annoying?" David wonders vaguely, resisting the urge to flick his gaze back over to the other side of the jet when he feels a different set of eyes rest on him.

Spencer hums but doesn't give a definite answer, his attention apparently caught by the loose thread on his shirt cuff. Rossi lets him be, knowing better than to speak to him when he gets intent on something – there's no point; there won't be an answer.

They're about to begin their descent when Hotch finally speaks up once more. "Garcia, are you still there?" The screens flicker out of their standby signs, and the Technical Analysis pops up with a fluffy pen in one hand and the other poised over her keyboard. "I want you to run checks on all the victims – focus on the most recent offences to their murders. There has to be something that set them off."

Penelope bobs her head and clicks out after a quick, "Sure thing, Bossman!"

"Blake, JJ," Hotch continues, "I want you to talk to Cassidy Monroe's family, see if they know anyone who might stoop to murder. Rossi and Reid, as soon as we touch down you can set up at the station. Morgan and I will check out the latest crime scene, see if we can pick out anything important. The local police have already pilfered through the evidence, so I don't think we'll be able to find much other than the information that can be gathered from the body itself."

The team nods in assent and Hotch slides off the side of the jet he has been leaning against and into his free seat, strapping his seat belt in. They all follow suit just in time as the plane slowly starts angling downwards.

David turns to look at Hotch, only to find him already glancing his way. David quirks an eyebrow up at him, and Hotch tilts his head as explanation. Having an answer, David switches his attention back to the window. So Hotch had put him on set-up duty with Reid because he thinks this case will be too tough for him. Understandable, if somewhat annoying. Although, by doing so he doesn't have anyone going to the morgue to actually check out the body.

As if sensing his thoughts, Hotch adds to Morgan, "After we take a look at the crime scene, we should go to the morgue. See what we can get from Ranche's body."

Morgan nods in agreement, turning away to look at Reid, raising an eyebrow. Spencer gives him one of his tight smiles, before ducking his head and letting his hands fall to the armrests at his sides. David observes this interaction distantly, but shrugs and glances back out the window.

CM

"Ouch," Spencer hisses, waving his hand through the air. David glances up from the evidence board to look at him in question. Reid looks embarrassed that he has caught David's attention, and quickly drops his hand. "Jabbed my thumb with the tack," he explains bashfully, picking the said tack up again.

"I thought coffee was supposed to _make_ you jittery, not the other way around," Rossi says wryly, turning back to the few pictures they have managed to put up on the board. He takes up a sharpie and begins writing the names of the victims under their pictures, along with their date of death as Reid grumbles.

"It has nothing to do with the coffee," he mumbles mutinously – but then he seems to be struck with an idea. "Although maybe if I had a cup, then it would help – I'd be able to focus better. I mean, it would just be the one cup and Hotch wouldn't have to know. Besides, he really shouldn't have banned me from it in the first place – I don't drink _that _much, and -"

"Reid," David interrupts, not even bothering to look up, "I thought you said it had nothing to do with the coffee."

The younger agent gapes, opening and closing his mouth before deciding to stay silent, letting the blush speak for him. "Well, it doesn't," he says reluctantly, "at least, I don't think it does. I don't drink _that _much!"

David keeps silent for a minute, finishing up his side of the board. He takes a step back and eyes his work critically, making sure everything's labeled correctly. Then he turns around and takes a seat at the table, vaguely enjoying Reid's slight irritation. "I'd say we've got about half an hour, maybe a full hour until Hotch and the others join us," he starts conversationally. Spencer glances back at him, hands pausing in the process of taping up a crime scene picture. "You've got twenty minutes to make, drink, and clean up a cup of coffee while I look the other way."

Spencer grins and slaps the picture on the board, pivoting around and hurrying off in the direction of the station kitchenette. David shakes his head and stands to complete Reid's abandoned work, smiling when he hears the coffee-maker power up.

He knows perfectly well that Reid drinks far more coffee than what could be considered healthy, but he also knows that the others sometimes exaggerate the amount he consumes – plus the fact that Spencer gets restless when he's _not _hopped up on caffeine, and tends to be unable to focus properly. Also, when Reid can't focus on the case, he spouts out even _more _facts than usual – odd, but true.

At the same time, it might be best that Hotch goes unaware of Reid's fresh cup.

CM

"I don't understand," Lisa Monroe whispers, raking a trembling hand through her dull blonde hair. "We've already spoken to the police. We had no idea who took Cassidy, and no one told us that they knew."

JJ hesitates and ducks her head around to glance at Blake beside her, but then sighs and turns back to the woman in front of them. "Mrs. Monroe, we know how hard this is for you and your husband," she consoles, trying to give them a sympathetic look. "But anything you remember could help us solve this case."

"What case?" Adam Monroe cuts across sharply, putting his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Our daughter is already dead" – Lisa makes a shuddering sob – "and the man who did it is long gone. There is no _case _that concerns us. Why do you even bother? He was a sick bastard who liked little girls – good riddance. I only wish he had been killed before he was able to take Cassidy."

"Mr. Monroe, we believe that the death of Jaxon Ranche was only the latest in a string of murders in this area. There's a serial killer on the loose, and it's our job to catch them," JJ explains gently, leaning forward in her seat.

"But the son of a bitch Ranche was a killer too," Adam argues, "why wasn't it your job to catch _him_? Are sick psychos more important than my little girl?"

"No," JJ assures quickly. "Of course they aren't. I really am so sorry about your daughter, and I wish this could've been prevented, but unfortunately we weren't called in to catch her killer: we were called in to stop the serial killing. Please, is there anything you can tell us about the time of Cassidy's disappearance, or the time after her death? Did anyone approach you, ask odd questions, and show a bit too much understanding and interest?"

Adam shakes his head and scoffs, pacing away from the sofa and clasping his hands behind his neck, but Lisa sighs and dries her eyes with the tissue clutched in her hand. "Everyone in the neighborhood is very close," she tells them. "All very helpful and supportive, as well as kind."

"Did anyone stick out?" JJ asks softly, directing her attention completely on the distraught mother.

Lisa's answer was cut off by a cry from upstairs. She begins to stand, but Adam brushes his hand on her shoulder as he walks past. "I'll get him," he whispers, disappearing from the room.

"My son," Lisa tells JJ and Blake, as if they are demanding an answer. "Daymen's only three. He misses his sister – keeps crying all the time. Cassidy used to play with his toys with him, helping him name them. She was always trying to teach him things, even though he's really too little to – to understand." She takes a breath and covers her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry," she sighs in a trembling voice. "I'm sorry I can't be of any help. Excuse me."

She stands up quickly and hurries out of the room, unable to hold back a sob before she slips through the door. JJ purses her lips and climbs to her feet with Blake, slowly making their way to the front door.

"I don't know why Hotch sent us here," Blake voices when they slip back into the police-supplied SUV. "Like they would want to help us find justice for their daughter's killer."

"It was worth a shot," JJ says weakly. "But I really don't think they know anything that might help us – even if they did, I don't think they're in any position to be able to tell us. They did just lose their only daughter and oldest child."

"Well I suppose we should head to the station," Blake sighs. "See if Hotch and Morgan have been able to find anything. How long do you think Reid will last without coffee?"

JJ laughs as she pulls the vehicle out of the Monroe's drive-way. "A guess? Not even a day. I wouldn't be surprised if later on we find him sneaking some coffee beans into his hotel room."

"Oh please," Alex snorts, "this is Reid's territory – I bet he knows somewhere he can sneak off to get some coffee without us finding him."

"Undoubtedly," JJ chuckles.

CM

"So he used a baseball bat again," Morgan notes as he and Hotch climb back into their car. "Just like with Michaels and Gulls. All the others were killed with something like a crowbar or pipe. Why change weapons?"

"Maybe he felt differently about Ranche from the others," Hotch suggests. "Since Michaels was what we can only guess was his first victim, he was probably the reason he started killing. Gulls went to prison at the same time as Michaels, and they definitely knew each other. Maybe he uses the baseball with the victims he is most angry with."

Morgan bobs his head slowly, furrowing his brow as he considers the facts in his head again. Just before Hotch puts the car into drive, his cellphone rings. Fishing it out of his pocket, he clicks the answer button and lifts it to his ear, muttering a quick greeting.

_"Sir,"_ Garcia says quickly, _"am I on speakerphone? I really don't think I should be on speakerphone, because I'm not sure if you want the others knowing this and if you don't then I don't want to give it away, so if I am on speakerphone I really think you should take me off of it -"_

"Garcia," Hotch interrupts her loudly, "slow down. You're not on speakerphone. What is you have to tell me?"

Morgan slides his eyes over to him curiously, but Hotch shakes his head.

_"Well, I did what you said and looked up the other victims, searching for something that could've set the UnSub off. For Kristopher Gulls, it turns out that a little boy made an allegation against him that he had tried to lure him into his house – the police made a report, but didn't really look into it. But, sir, for Gary Michaels . . . apparently his body was found when the FBI started looking for him, roughly twenty-four years ago."_

"Okay, and?" Hotch prompts when Garcia pauses.

_"Well, the FBI were looking for him because he was the main suspect in the kidnapping and murder of a little boy – kidnapped when he was four, killed when he was six."_ Penelope takes a break, breathing in and exhaling in a gust. _"Sir, that boy was named James Rossi."_

Hotch clenches his hand on the wheel, his knuckles going white. Morgan looks surprised and glances at him in concern, but Hotch ignores him. "What?" he chokes out.

_"I know, I know,"_ Garcia says quickly, _"I couldn't believe it either. Do . . . Do you think there's any connection between this boy and Rossi? I mean, I'm sure there's plenty of people with that name, but the boy was kidnapped from his home in Quantico, and it's a hefty coincidence, right? What do you think?"_

"I think I need to talk to Dave," Hotch sighs, mostly to himself. "Garcia, I need you to keep this between us, okay? You can't tell the rest of the team. Not yet."

_"Okay, but why?"_

"I can't tell you that right now, but you _cannot _tell anyone else, understood? That's an order Garcia."

Before she agrees, Hotch hangs up and slips his phone back into his pocket. He remains tense, keeping his hands tight on the wheel.

"What was that about?" Morgan finally asks. "What can't Babygirl tell us?"

"Nothing you should know until I speak to Dave," Hotch grounds out.

_**A/N - And it's all about to come out. Who's committing the murders? How will Hotch confront Rossi about his son? When will I next update? All very important questions. Can I just say, this morning I only had this chapter rewritten to the part where Rossi is staring out the window of the jet - and then I saw that I got TWO new reviews (bringing the total to 62, squee!) and I couldn't stop writing. You see, reviews are motivation! Love ya guys! (Not in the creepy way. :P)**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N - Yeah, I know, no excuse. There was a long wait for this chapter, and for that I apologize. But I had a serious case of writer's block for this story! I mean, I know exactly who I want the UnSub to be; everything's planned out in my head, but I have no idea how to leave clues for the team in order to lead them to the right guy. It's hard! My admiration goes out to those author's that have faced this challenge and won, because it is a doozy. Oh, and I just want to say that any geographic information that is wrong in this chapter is the result of me never actually having taken a proper geography class and the fact that I can barely tell you where to look for Brazil on a map. Hey, I'm young, I have time to learn!**_

**Disclaimer: I swear, I own nothing recognizable. Except the sweater Reid wears in this but is never actually mentioned in this chapter. Just imagine that it's there - but not too much: it's _MINE! _Okay, I'm a little sleep-deprived and deranged. I should go. **

"Well, we got nothing from the girl's parents," Blake sighs as she settles into a chair at the table. JJ is right behind her and pulls up a seat next to Reid, who briefly glances up from a paper he has scribbled over. "The father wasn't very cooperative, and the mother wasn't very helpful."

"That's to be expected," Rossi acknowledges. "After all, this is all fresh for them. They probably haven't quite come to terms with it yet. Besides, we didn't really think we were going to get much information from them, anyway."

"Worth a try," Spencer injects in a distracted manner, eyeing the piece of paper in front of him critically. "Where're Hotch and Morgan?" he asks the two women, barely diverting his attention away from whatever clue has entrapped his genius brain.

"Uh," Blake frowns, "they were right behind us . . ."

"Here," Hotch says shortly as he and Morgan stride into the room. Reid stills and flicks his gaze upwards before hastily lowering it again in – guilt? Blake smirks as she notices, while JJ snickers. Hotch doesn't appear to be aware of the transaction. "Dave," he calls, gesturing to the hall. Rossi looks up in surprise, but gets to his feet and follows the agent, a dawning look of apprehension clouding his face.

The others peer after them curiously, but Hotch firmly shuts the door, concealing them from view. Ignoring David's questions, he studies the hall before leading him into an empty office. He closes this door as well, but doesn't speak straight away, instead opting to observe the other man with an unnerving gaze.

"What's this about?" David asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Gary Michaels," Hotch says simply. David pauses, eyes hard and stance defensive. "Was there something you didn't tell me earlier?" Aaron probes, hand lingering on the doorknob. "About your connection to this case?"

"What about it?"

Hotch finally gets short tempered and narrows his eyes. "Garcia found the records, Dave. I know the FBI was searching for Michaels because he was a suspect for the kidnapping and murder of a boy – more specifically, James Rossi. There's no point in denying it; I know it isn't just a coincidence. I just want you to tell me the truth."

There's a moment of silent, defiant staring between them where a battle of wills seem to commence. Finally Rossi sighs and closes his eyes tiredly, slumping into a nearby chair. Aaron feels all traces of irritation fade away from him as he gets a glimpse of a version of Rossi he never knew existed – the grieving father. Only now does he recognize it as the hint of the expression he had seen right after Carolyn killed herself; only then, Hotch hadn't been able to give it a name.

"Do the others -"

"They don't know," Hotch answers quietly. "I told Garcia to tell no one but me."

David nods vaguely as if he isn't entirely paying attention, pinching the bridge of his nose before raising his head to face the other man. "What I told you before," he starts, "it was all true. I just didn't tell you everything. It took a long time for the FBI to even get a suspect for James's kidnapping – the results from the little blood there was at the scene were inconclusive. It took a year before I convinced the lab to run it again. That time, we got a hit. Gary Michaels: registered pedophile, recently released from jail. I wasn't allowed to go with them to go get him – too 'emotionally involved'. I was on pins and needles the whole time until they came back. Then Gideon told me that Michaels was dead and the body of a little boy was found. James."

Hotch leans against the door and looks at him with an unreadable expression. "Is that everything?" he finally queries. "You're not leaving anything else out?"

David shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," Aaron murmurs – but for what exactly, David isn't too sure. "It took me by surprise."

David shifts and stares him in the eye. "I should probably have told you," he concedes, "but I didn't see the point. It has nothing to do with the case other than the fact that I have a personal connection with the first victim. Hardly information that's going to offer a lead."

Hotch hesitates, looking extremely reluctant to voice the direction of his thoughts. David lets him squirm for a bit, his brows furrowed as he tries to decipher what has made the other man so unwilling. When it hits him he reels back, anger rising to the surface – but he manages to keep a tight lid on it.

"I didn't _do this, _Aaron," he says sharply.

"Of course not," Hotch replies smoothly, an odd, calculating look in his eye. "No one's pegging you as a serial killer, Dave. It stands against everything we work for. However," he draws out, "there was a stretch between the death of Michaels and the death of Gulls. An unusual amount of time to hold out patience, for a killer."

David narrows his eyes. "You're suggesting that Michaels wasn't murdered by the serial killer. That it was a singular killing, one that a budding serial killer latched onto and copied. That's why there was a stretch – so the copy-cat could perfect his technique." He pauses, considering his words with a sour look. "Are you saying you think I could've killed Gary Michaels?"

* * *

"Is it just me, or are they getting louder in there?" Morgan whispers, gaze flicking to the others. His brow tilts up in his innate curiosity, yet a somewhat hesitant frown pulls at his lips.

"Maybe that's just because you have your ear practically glued to the door," Reid suggests nervously, eyes fixed on said door. He hovers by the entrance to their make-shift round-table room hesitantly, a white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. "Of course it's going to get louder. Now move away from there!"

JJ laughs quietly, peering over her shoulder to get a better look at him. "What's the matter, Spence? Afraid you're going to get caught?"

Spencer frowns but doesn't deny it, instead opting to sigh and dart wary looks at the closed door as he carefully unlocks his fingers from the wood of the doorframe and slowly steps closer to the huddle of agents across the hall from him.

"I think they're arguing," Morgan says, eyes narrowed as he strains his hearing through the door. "I can't tell what they're saying, but they sound . . . not quite angry, but getting there."

Blake crosses her arms and paces away from him and JJ in favor of moving closer to Reid. "Maybe someone should go in and make sure everything's okay," she suggests, a strange look in her eye, "and the rest of us will go back – we don't want them knowing we were eavesdropping."

Morgan and JJ look over to her and seem to catch onto her idea, because Morgan gains a worrying grin and JJ slides her gaze over to Reid.

"What?"

* * *

The unwilling look comes back into Hotch's eye, but he tightens his lips in defiance of it. "I didn't say that," he says evenly. "Why don't you tell me? _Did _you kill him? It would be understandable; he did take your son, after all. Maybe it wasn't planned. Maybe you just saw James and lost it; like I said, it would be understandable. Wrong, but understandable."

"Aaron, listen to me," David grounds out, "_I didn't kill Gary Michaels. _Sure, I'd like to know who did – maybe shake their hand." His face twists. "But you _know _I didn't kill him. Think about it; why would I go to the trouble of making Jason and a trial team track him down and come back to tell me something I already knew?"

Hotch relaxes easily, tense stance fleeing happily. "I didn't think you killed him," he admits. "But I had to make sure."

"Accusing me of murder," David states flatly. "I'm not under interrogation, Aaron. You can't use those tactics on me. Why would you even do that; it's clear I didn't kill him."

"What was I supposed to think?" Hotch cuts across loudly. "You lied to me, Dave. You held back information on the case! Why would you do that unless you had something to hide?"

"Maybe because it was something I didn't want the team _or _you to know!"

"Uh, guys?" a nervous, quiet voice interrupts them. "Is everything okay? You got kind of loud in here."

They both whirl around to see Reid, peering around the door he has only opened a crack, apparently worried for getting in trouble for intruding. Hotch and Rossi fight to rein their emotions back in, frustrated that they have gotten so carried away by their argument that they forgot to regulate the sounds of their voices.

"Everything's fine," David takes the liberty to answer, getting to his feet and not sparing Aaron a glance as he strides to the door. "Sorry to alert you – we just had a disagreement."

Reid looks dubious but seemingly knows better than to ask; he holds the door open for Rossi then shoots Hotch a curious, wide-eyed look before slipping out after him.

CM

"So . . ." Blake starts awkwardly once they are all seated in their set-up room once more. She glances between Hotch and Rossi, but Reid catches her eye and shakes his head furiously. Eyebrow quirked up, she turns to Morgan to address the question, "Find anything helpful at the morgue?"

"Hmm?" he hums, caught unaware. "Oh, yeah; there were no defensive wounds on the body, so our UnSub must have caught them by surprise. Used a baseball bat again, but he was killed by two hits around the head – the first one, the coroner reckoned, incapacitated him, and the second one killed him."

"Must have struck him from behind," Spencer muses, studiously avoiding looking at either Hotch or Rossi. "Was there a video with this victim, too?"

"Yes," Hotch answers this time, picking up the remote and aiming it at the small, portable TV at the other end of the room. "It's much of the same as the others, but we have noticed something of a pattern."

The team watches the video with divided attention; half of their mind captured by the 'gift' left by the UnSub, and the other half listening to Hotch as he continues. "Out of all the victims, only four of them have been killed with a baseball bat. Garcia called as we pulled up to the station, which is why we were delayed behind JJ and Blake, to tell us the location of the victims' residences."

Reid instantly slips from his chair and strides to the board with his customary map, plucking a red pen from the table as he does so. He patiently awaits Hotch's list of addresses, scratching a circle and name around each location. When done, he steps away and glances over it, brows climbing in surprise.

"They all lived in the same immediate area," he observes, then raises the pen back up to the map. "Where did all the other victims live?" After only a second or two of scrambling to find the correct information, Spencer has all the addresses of the victims circled in pen on the map.

"So the only victims that were killed by the bat lived close to each other," David observes. "Yet every victim lived in the same general area. So the UnSub decided to kill only those who lived in nearby neighborhoods in a specific – and probably more personal – way. Why that area?"

Reid shakes his head, looking mildly distant and confused. "But we already had an idea for that," he reminds them. "Gulls and Michaels were in jail together; so the UnSub must've had similar feelings towards them. As for the others, Garcia wasn't able to find any connections between them, other than their addresses."

A considering look gracing her features, JJ leans back in her seat. "Maybe the connection between Gulls and Michaels wasn't the focus," she offers. "Maybe the UnSub only cared where they lived. Wouldn't it be difficult for them to discover which of them went to jail together?"

"But not impossible," David points out. "However, it seems more likely that location is key. The victims killed with the bat all lived close together, right? So it would stand to reason that the UnSub would live somewhere in that area, and expands his killing zone."

"But why decrease it again?" Blake inquires. "The UnSub killed the first few victims in a close cluster, but then he branched out and murdered Tomas Mitchell on the furthest end of the geographical profile before returning to the inner circle and killing Jean Locke. Why the jump if he was working his way outwards?"

Reid goes back to his seat but keeps his eyes on the map even as he thumbs through the papers in his file. He isn't looking for a specific one, as far as David can tell, but rather fingering the papers as if to bring forth the information that he has undoubtedly stored away in his mind. Using the papers as a sort of anchor, if you will, that helps keep him tied to whatever it is he's searching for. "What if he isn't working outwards," he says slowly, as if still organizing his thoughts into coherent streams.

"What are you thinking, kid?" Morgan asks, leaning forward in anticipation.

"Well, if Rossi is right, which I think he probably is, then the UnSub most likely lives in the middle of the more 'personal' murders. That doesn't leave a lot of room – barely two main-stream streets. There are unofficial and uncharted roads of course, mostly for the people that want to live off the radar – understandable considering this is Vegas – but based on what meager profile we've managed to scrap together so far, the UnSub probably lives in one of the more public streets. So, the four victims that were killed closely together and with the same method: Kristopher Gulls, Gary Michaels, Jaxon Ranche, and Jean Locke.

"Both Gulls and Michaels lived on Jackson Valley Ct, while Ranche lived closer to Iron Crossing Avenue. Locke's residence was just off Brent Lane – all of them were stationed very close together. Unusually so. Even the other victims were scattered from Rocky Ravine Ave to Saddle Valley Street. Basically, all the victims were clustered in a group. It's odd that such a number of pedophiles lived in the same area, but not unheard of. However, the odds for such a thing occurring is about 11.56 -"

Morgan raises a hand and swiftly cuts him off. "Can't you just call it an enormously rare coincidence? We don't need, or particularly _want, _the exact numbers, Reid. Just, I don't know, dumb it down a bit. Unlike some people, we don't require every statistic – besides, even if you told us, we wouldn't remember it. In one ear and out the other."

Spencer obediently keeps his mouth shut from rambling about odds and statistics, even managing to look a bit bashful; but David knows something is amiss. Yes, sometimes Reid rambles on for, what seems to be, the hell of it, but it can occasionally be used to help on the case – even if it seems like showing off at the time. Recently, though, Reid has gotten (a little) better at restraining himself from boring them all silly (not that he means to – David thinks, anyway) and usually only drags out such knowledge when nervous, bored, tired, caffeine-deprived, or when he is trying to hide something. Since David cannot see any reason for Reid to be nervous, bored, or tired (David knows for a fact that the damn kid hardly ever sleeps, what with his coffee consumption; he must be a freaking insomniac) that leaves caffeine-deprived and hiding something.

It cannot possibly be coffee withdrawal when David had seen him practically gulp down a full cup without pause less than an hour ago, so there is only one logical conclusion. Spencer Reid is purposely not telling the team something – something important if Spencer's frown is anything to go by.

David inwardly calculates all this within the space of a few heartbeats while the others continue to debate and discuss the new location problem; but Spencer stays silent of further input, staring at the map with an apparently frustrated expression.

Maybe David should stop profiling his fellow teammate, it is, after all, a team rule; one that is constantly broken, true, but a rule nonetheless. Besides, it's probably not that big a deal. If it is something really important, Reid will tell Hotch, at least. He knows better than to keep potentially helpful information to himself. Then again, by the way Spencer's hands are continually twitching, and the way his eyes dart to Hotch almost anxiously, it is equally possible that Reid will do the same thing David did – not tell anyone anything; or, at least not everything.

Is it odd that Rossi can decipher all this in a matter of seconds? Why is it he seems to be the only one that has noticed Spencer's clearly shifty attitude? Yeah, he has _got _to stop profiling Reid – it's getting strange how easily he can read him.

* * *

The fact that Rossi can obviously see how restless and twitchy he is only succeeds in making Spencer even more twitchy and restless. However, Spencer keeps his eyes firmly locked on the map and board in front of him, finally clasping his hands together in his lap to stop them from drumming on the table-top – no doubt that will attract unwanted attention from the others; even if it is just for a second, just long enough for them to tell him to 'knock it off'. Not that Spencer minds these instances; he actually finds them helpful since sometimes he doesn't notice that he is doing it. The team knows this, so they let him know in their own ways – but Morgan always seems to be the first to pick up on it, and always seems to have a smart-ass method of bringing it to his attention. It's annoying sometimes but amusing other times.

Eyes still trained on the map, Spencer briefly loses any sense of the room around him, sinking into the depths of his own mind for a time. He doesn't let himself do this too often at work, since it's all too easy for him to lose track of time and end up staring at a dull wall for about half-an-hour until someone is finally kind enough to wake him from it. This time, however, he is apparently unable to stop himself.

Unfortunately, this time is no different from others because he suddenly finds himself being roughly shaken by the shoulder, though not unkindly. Snapping out of it, Spencer's eyes fly open and narrow instantly as they struggle to focus once more.

"You gotta learn the proper time and place to zone out, Reid," Morgan chuckles, releasing his shoulder and sinking into the vacated chair next to him – in fact, Reid notices in astonishment, the whole room is now empty, save for him and Morgan.

Seemingly noticing his dazed look, Morgan grins. "Yeah," he says, sounding highly amused. "You were out of it for a while. Ten or fifteen minutes at least. The others are getting some coffee." Spencer perks up hopefully, but Morgan shakes his head and dashes his dreams. "Sorry, Hotch ordered me to stay here and keep you from mauling them to get some coffee – okay, so they weren't his _exact _words, but that was the general meaning – so I'm afraid you're still banned from the stuff. Tough luck."

Spencer frowns in disappointment but his focus is again caught by the map and it shifts into a scowl; one that doesn't go unnoticed by his companion.

"Hey, what's wrong? Don't tell me nothing, Reid, 'cause we both know that isn't true. So, come on, tell me; what's up?"

After only a second's hesitant reluctance, Spencer sighs and hangs his head, allowing his hair to fall in his eyes and block the map from view. "Jackson Valley Ct.," he mumbles. "Where the first two victims lived."

"Okay," Morgan says carefully. "What about it?"

Spencer chews on his lip and twiddles with the pen to avoid looking at him; then he pauses and peers up at Morgan with a strange, cautious look in his eye. "It's where I lived as a child. It's the place I grew up."

**So, the truth is close at hand. Maybe. *cue evil laughter***

**There was so much I wanted to say, but I am far too tired to even try and remember it all, so I'll just stick with this:**

**My idea for the UnSub is already set in stone - I knew who I wanted it to be before I even considered the Rossi/Reid connection for this story, however hard that may be to understand - but I'm curious: who do YOU think the UnSub is? I'd love to know your theories! Who knows, maybe the closest (or most creative) reviewer will get a special prize - nothing _that _special of course, I have limited ways to present prizes. But honestly, what do you guys think?**

**Please tell me, I'd love to have your input! You're all amazing, really, so I thank you all!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the late update guys. No excuses. Gave you a long chapter for an apology! Okay, fine, it's average length for this story, but it was up to 4,000 words on the Word Document - minus thirty odd words, but hey - rounding!**

**Disclaimer: I only own my own twists to this tale of mine. I own nothing recognizable.**

**Oh, hey, please disregard any episode mentioning William Reid from here on out, okay? I'm changing major factors in the episode where Reid accused him of murder. This just works better in my head. **

When the team, minus Reid and Morgan, leave the makeshift round-table room, David lingers a minute longer. He hovers outside the door, not even able to explain his actions to himself. He, like the others, had noticed when Reid spaced out. Though not uncommon, it had genuinely surprised David. He had been sure that Reid was on ball with this case, giving it his full attention – but, then why had he zoned out? It's this curiosity that places him outside the office while the others crowd the tiny station kitchen.

David's just about to give up and make his way to the kitchen, already preparing an excuse for his tardiness, when those in the room finally speak. He really shouldn't be eavesdropping – it's rude; imagine how he would have felt if the others had listened in to his conversation with Hotch earlier! – but, at the same time, whatever is being said cannot possibly be as private as what had been shared between he and Hotch. Yet, this faces him with another question – if he is so sure that it is unimportant, why is he bothering to eavesdrop in the first place?

Despite the fact that he cannot come up with a satisfactory answer, David does not leave his position just outside the door. He listens, quelling his feelings of guilt at doing so, and keeps an ear out for the return of the others as well. He almost leaves when Morgan starts ribbing Reid for zoning out, then nearly chuckles at Morgan's interpretation of Hotch's orders.

Honestly, where did he even get the notion of Reid 'mauling them' to get to the coffee? It's nowhere near what Hotch had really said: _"We should take a break; get some coffee and wake us up a bit. Morgan, it looks like Reid's still thinking, I want you stay here with him – he's probably desperate for another cup, but I meant what I said on the plane."_

It had been said with a smothered smile and an echo of snickers in the background – courtesy of JJ and Blake. David himself had just shaken his head, knowing full well that Reid was most certainly _not _caffeine-deprived, but had, understandably, not spoken up.

"Hey, what's up? Don't tell me nothing, Reid, 'cause we both know that isn't true. So, come on, tell me; what's up?"

David straightens up a bit once this travels through the doorway, training all his hearing onto the habitants in the room.

"Jackson Valley Ct.; where the first two victims lived."

The agent outside the door strains to focus even more attention onto their conversation. Has Reid found a connection between Michaels and Gulls? If so, David is desperate to learn it. At least now he can justify his eavesdropping to himself – it'll be worth it if he can learn anything new on Gary Michaels. Maybe he'll talk to Reid, once they're in a more private place.

"Okay. What about it?"

Exactly what David is eager to know. Come on, Reid, hurry up and say whatever it is! His hesitance puts David on edge, so much so that he grows frustrated, almost about to storm through the door and demand the answer himself, when –

"It's where I lived as a child. It's the place I grew up."

David stops. He hesitates by the door, unsure of whether to leave or slip into the room himself. He finally decides that it might be best if Morgan and Reid go unaware of his eavesdropping, yet his curiosity is still not sated. He moves so that his stance can be passed off as casual by any who pass by him, so no one will suspect his real motives.

"You lived in the same area as the first two victims?" Morgan's voice asks quietly. "Did they live there while you did?"

The rustling of papers echoes into the slight crack in the door and into the hall. It takes a moment for Spencer to find whatever he's looking for, which is strange in itself, but he manages it quicker than the others could have.

"Um, yeah. Gary Michaels moved there when I would have been around five, and Kristopher Gulls moved shortly after Michaels went missing. Why?"

David's mind is whirling almost too much for him to catch what is being said by Morgan; this is new. At the time of his son's abduction, David hadn't really bothered to nit-pick all the fine details – he had only been able to handle one thing at a time, and James's absence had been more than enough. So he hadn't known where exactly in Vegas Michaels had lived – or for how long – until they took the case.

So, not only had Reid grown up in the same immediate area as two – and more in the surrounding area – pedophiles, he had also lived a stone throw's away from where James had been kept. Why had Michaels stayed in one place for such a long time? It must have been dangerous; Michaels had to have known that the FBI was looking for him. It would have been insanely risky to remain in the same street – same house! – for, what? Two, three years? Possibly more, since he could've flown out to Quantico with the sole purpose of kidnapping a child – though, it seems unlikely. Flying out from Vegas, just in an attempt to snatch a boy? There had to have been plenty of children he could've taken closer to home – why, even Spencer Reid had been merely a few rows over.

There had to have been something that kept him tethered to Vegas, to the street he'd lived on. Another victim, perhaps? One that the authorities don't know about? Maybe Reid will know of any children that had gone missing when he was young – perhaps one of them could be traced back to Michaels, and give them a lead.

However, David is still wrapping his mind around this new connection between Spencer and James. They had been so close to each other. Was it possible that they had maybe interacted, for even a brief stint in time? Michaels couldn't have kept James cooped up in his prison-house for two years straight – not without raising suspicion. He had to have let him out every now and then, right? It's a long-shot, but Reid might have at least seen him when he was young.

Although, David thinks as his heart sinks, it's not like he can ask him – not unless he wants to tell Reid about James. Maybe he should tell the whole team – make sure it doesn't come up and bite him in the ass later if they find out on their own. Not yet, though. He can't do it now.

"You gonna tell Hotch?"

Morgan's voice draws David out of his own mind – huh, is this what Reid feels like when he zones out? – and back to the conversation in the other room. He doesn't hear a response from Reid, but he isn't sure if this is because of a soft-spoken answer or because he doesn't verbally speak. However, he hears the squeak of a chair being pushed across the floor as someone – probably Morgan – gets to their feet. At the same time, the clattering of footsteps comes from the opposite end of the hall. Trapped and indecisive on a course of action, David hurriedly paces closer to the sound of the team's voices, spinning on his heel and facing the other way as he does so.

When Hotch rounds the corner, with the others rounded up behind him, his eyebrows climb when he sees David slowly trudging back to the round-table room.

"Dave," he calls, and only then does David notice an extra coffee cup in his hand. "Here," Hotch says, handing it over. "Thought you might want a cup. Where were you?"

David waves his hand dismissively. "Just . . . looking around," he offers lamely. "You know, it's probably cruel, somehow, all of us drinking coffee in front of Reid. You wouldn't do that on purpose, would you?"

Hotch sighs and behind him, a smile tugs at JJ's lips. "No," she answers for him. "Hotch wouldn't – but we would. Spence'll be fine. He's the one who's always saying how he isn't totally dependent on coffee; maybe it's time he proved it."

David quirks a brow, but raises no further complaint as he gratefully takes the extra cup off Aaron's hands. They push open the door and enter the room, David feeling a little apprehensive at what they will find. Luckily, it appears that Morgan and Reid are finished their small conversation. Derek is leaning against the table, apparently studying the evidence board, and Reid is still sitting exactly where everyone left him. Morgan throws a glance their way when he hears them enter, then grins gratefully at JJ when she passes over a cup of coffee. Reid pouts and eyes them moodily, so Blake plops into a chair beside him.

"Don't worry," she says. "I'm sure Hotch will have forgotten all about this tomorrow."

Reid perks up, looking hopeful.

"No, I won't," Hotch denies, not even glancing up from the table as he sits down.

Morgan snorts and Spencer deflates, gaining the expression of a sulking child.

"Told you it was cruel," David murmurs to JJ, indicating the agent with a tilt of his head. JJ purses her lips together, but her sparkling eyes give away her inner laughter. "This ban isn't an extended thing, is it?" he asks, his voice giving away his worry.

"Why? Don't want a volatile Reid to deal with?"

David shakes his head, allowing her to interpret it anyway she wishes. He takes a gulp of his beverage, carefully keeping his eyes from straying to Reid so as to avoid the look of betrayal and longing that's bound to be painted on his face. Before he can feel too guilty about all of them drinking coffee in front of the one agent banned from the stuff, the phone placed directly in the middle of the table starts to ring.

As it can clearly only be one person, Hotch immediately clicks it onto speakerphone. "Garcia," he says in greeting. "What have you got?"

_"I did what you wanted, sir, and tried to find any missing children reports from around the time of death for each victim," _she responds, _"and you are _so _good. In the case of every victim, at least one child went missing about a week before their deaths. I looked into it, and every child lived closed to, or had intercepting paths with, the victim that was murdered in that time frame. _

_Okay, so for Kristopher Gulls, a girl named Ella Norton disappeared four days before his body was found – so, about two days before his murder."_

Reid scrambles up from his chair – probably eager to get away from the tempting caffeine, David figures – and hastily paces over to the evidence board, while Morgan slips into his vacated seat – despite the fact that he still has his original chair beside him. Reid uncaps the marker and begins scribbling the facts that Garcia is dutifully giving out.

_"She was nine years old and lived three houses down from him, plus she did the paper route – he would have seen her every day. Before you ask, yes, I've already checked her background for possible suspects. Her mother wasn't in the picture and, from what I can gather, her father didn't care much for her and her brother. Her brother, however, Charlie, disappeared three years after her disappearance. I mean, like, literally disappeared – no credit card trails, no internet life, no nothing. I don't even know if he's still alive."_

Hotch briefly glances up at Reid, who shrugs and marks down the name on the suspect list anyway – the otherwise blank list. His marker remains poised over the list for a moment's pause, but then he gives a tiny jerk of the head and lowers it. David narrows his eyes at this, but stays silent.

_"The third victim was Tomas Mitchell, and I discovered that just over a week before his murder, a seven-year-old girl's body showed up, matching the description of one Courtney Smith. She didn't live anywhere near him, but her after-school care was a block down. He had ample opportunity to kidnap her without anyone noticing."_

"Any potential suspects?" JJ asks, beating Reid to the punch; he closes his mouth and turns back to the board, lofting the marker up in preparation.

_"Ah, no. Family's all deceased, and there doesn't appear to be any vengeful seeming neighbors."_

Reid lowers the marker again, looking disappointed. "What about the fourth victim?" he inquires, then barely pauses before adding, "Jean Locke?"

_"Oh, boy. Let's see . . . yes, here it is. Jean Locke's body was found two weeks after the disappearance of an eleven-year-old boy named Danny Luke. Again, no potential suspects . . . but I can tell you that so far, all the missing/murdered children went to the same school. As far as I can tell, they didn't know each other except maybe seeing one another in the playground or something."_

"What school was it?" Blake asks, resting her elbow on the table and then propping her head up on her hand.

"Shadow Ridge," comes the reply – but it isn't from Garcia.

_"Um, yeah; what he said. How did you know that, Boy Wonder?"_ she says from the phone, managing to mute her tone of surprise.

The team glances up at Reid in question, but only Morgan and David have a look of dawning realization – neither look too happy at the connection. Reid flushes, looking flustered. He scratches the back of his neck and diverts his eyes.

"That was the, uh, local elementary in the area," he flounders. "It was changed to a high-school in 1992."

"How do you know that?" JJ asks in an amused manner.

Reid flits his gaze over to Morgan, looking panicked, and Morgan seems to be debating mentally. David understands his dilemma – tell Reid he needs to tell the team about his connection to this case, or help a friend out of a sticky situation? Just as Morgan appears to come to a decision, Garcia frees Reid from his awkward position.

_"Oh, come on Jayje! Our genius knows everything – time to accept it and move on to the next topic. Which would be the fifth victim; Kelly Gordon, killed three days after the body of Cal Williams was found. Cal Williams was eight, and wouldn't you know it; he went to Shadow Ridge too._

_"Then, there's Bobby Morse; he was murdered when a ten-year-old girl named Katie Jessal accused him of trying to lure her into his house – nothing was proven, but the police didn't make much of an effort after the guy was found dead. Katie didn't go to Shadow Ridge, but she did have a sister that did._

_"Chris Nunner's body has not yet been found, but there's clear evidence pointing to his death. He disappeared when one Molly Potter, aged thirteen, was found unconscious in his house."_

"Wait," Blake says slowly. "What about Gary Michaels? Any disappearances around his time of murder?"

David and Hotch both tense, sharing a similar worried look. Garcia stays silent for a beat too long, and the others start to grow cautiously suspicious expressions.

_"Oh, I, uh, couldn't find anything substantial for missing children during that time," _Garcia finally improvises. _"I'll . . . keep working on it._

_"As for the others, I'm still working on it. It's surprisingly difficult to find anything substantial on Daniel Teel, Tommy Foal, and Greg Jordan. Seriously, it's like someone amazingly good with computers just erased any motive that could've been deducted for their murders. The files are _there, _they're just buried under useless codes and junk. Don't you worry, however, because PG is on the case. I'll call you when I have more, crime fighters!"_

With her usual bid of goodbye, Garcia hangs up. The room lapses into silence, the only sound being the squeak of the marker on the board as Reid adds the last bits of information to what little they have. Once done, he steps back and observes the work he's detailed. He forgets to cap the marker and accidentally draws a red line down his shirt. He doesn't seem to notice, so David casually leaves his seat and takes the writing utensil from his hand and caps it, placing back down on the table and returning to his seat.

The others watch him with raised eyebrows, but he just shrugs while Reid flushes and mumbles a thank-you. He then clears his throat and, after a scowl at Morgan for stealing his seat – or for chuckling at the red line on his shirt, David isn't entirely sure – settles into Morgan's old seat.

"Only one suspect so far?" Blake summarizes in surprise. "Charlie Norton?"

"It's possible he's the UnSub, but it's highly unlikely," Reid says absently. "From what Garcia's said, it looks like he just disappeared. Best bet is that he's dead. Or hiding out somewhere. The reason he disappeared was to get away from society, erase himself from existence. He wouldn't want to draw attention to himself by implicating himself with murders. No, it's doubtful that Charlie Norton is actually the UnSub."

"Either way, it's worth checking out," Hotch says. "Hopefully, Garcia will be able to find something substantial on him, so we can go talk to him."

"Until then, I guess we'll have to take a look at past crime scenes," JJ sighs. "It's really all we have to go on for now; at least until Garcia either finds something pinning down Norton, or she gets through those videos from the UnSub for clues. I doubt she'll be done any time soon – she's the best at what she does, but you have to admit this is difficult, even for her."

"JJ's right," Hotch agrees. "However, we'll have to start with only three of the crime scenes for now – the others are a few hours' drive; a day at least. We can wait until we know for sure there are no other clues to glean from the others to go there. Blake, Reid, you two can check out Gary Michael's site of death, as well as his former residence. Rossi and Morgan, you take a look at Gulls' murder site and residence; JJ and I will go investigate Locke's sites."

The team nods, but at least two of their number look more than a bit apprehensive; Reid tries to hide it, but does a poor job at concealing his worried frown, while David is openly displeased. Though grateful to Hotch for not making him search Michaels' place of residence, he can't help but feel a faint throb of annoyance – he had, in a small way, wanted to see the place for himself; had wanted to see the final living space of his son. However, he acknowledges the fact that it would probably not have been the best idea to do so while in company of another team member – even Hotch, though he now knows all about James.

None of this, however, manages to assuage his feelings whatsoever.

As the team pushes away from the table and begins filtering out the door to do as ordered, David hangs back, hoping that his plan will work out – calling it a 'plan' may be stretching it a bit, but David thinks it pointless to trifle himself with coming up with a better term to use.

His 'plan' – whatever you wish to call it – luckily comes through and succeeds, as Reid is also among the last of the line to leave. He hovers by the table a moment longer than the others, packing up his satchel with books and crime pictures – why the kid needs to bring them with him when he's already got the stuff burned into his brain is beyond David – before hefting it onto his shoulder and turning to leave. By this time, the others have already vacated the room, so David has ample opportunity to reach out and snag his arm.

Spencer stills and spins back around, a puzzled look on his face.

"Rossi?" he says in question. "What's wrong?"

David eyes him. "I could ask you the same," he says. "I saw how hesitant you were when Garcia was on the phone – especially when she brought up the school." No need to tell him about his eavesdropping escapade. "When you were listing the facts onto the board, you looked as if you wanted to say something. What was it?"

Spencer bites his lip, looking reluctant.

"If you know anything that can help the case, Reid, you have to tell me," David urges.

The younger agent blows out a breath through his teeth in a whoosh, apparently deciding something in David's eye makes him trustworthy with whatever information he's about to share.

"It could be nothing," he warns. "It might've just been my imagination – I was a kid, and my mom said that he was a figment of my imagination, that he wasn't real, but it's just -" Spencer stops, sounding frustrated. David stays silent, but encourages him to continue with a tiny nod. "When I was a kid – about six or seven – I had this 'imaginary' friend; at least, that's what my mother told me he was; named Riley Jenkins. He was a year or so older than me, and played on my little league team. One day, Riley disappeared – I discovered later that he had been killed and found behind his dryer in his basement. I don't know what happened to him, the case went unsolved, but I – his path crossed with Gary Michaels', the first victim, a lot. It's possible that he had something to do with Riley's death – if he was ever real, that is."

David frowns. "If he wasn't real," he says, piecing it together, "then how would there be a case to go unsolved?"

Spencer sucks on his lip nervously. "Well," he ventures, "I never actually saw the case files – or any proof of their existence – I was told about them by a . . . friend," he says, though he sounds unsure to David's ears.

"What kind of friend?" David queries.

Spencer wrinkles his brow. "I-I don't remember," he stutters uncertainly, obviously unsettled by this revelation.

Despite the fact that this stuns David – isn't Reid supposed to remember everything? – he doesn't let it show; the agent's clearly panicked enough as it is.

"Don't worry about it," he assures. "It probably doesn't matter who told you. Just relax; even your memory isn't infallible, Reid. Go on, best catch up to Blake – she's bound to be waiting for you, if she hasn't decided it a lost cause and left without you."

Spencer nods, still shaken by his memory loss, and scampers from the room – okay, he doesn't really _scamper, _but it's the first word that springs to David's mind – leaving the elder agent to contemplate in solitude. He knows Morgan is awaiting him, so he hastily pulls his phone from his pocket and punches in the correct number for speed-dial.

_"Rossi?"_

"Garcia," he says. "I have a favor to ask you."

_"Oh, um, okay sir; I'm a little swamped with the videos and tracking down Charlie Norton, so is it something quick, or another little project? I wouldn't mind if it was something big, of course, it would just take longer and slow down the case work, and I don't -"_

"It isn't anything big," David assures, a little suspicious as to why Garcia is spewing words at him nervously – then he remembers; Hotch had asked her to search Michaels, and she had been the one to tell him about James. No wonder she's a bit of a mess with him right now.

_"Oh, well, okay then. What can I do for you?"_

"I need everything you can find on one Riley Jenkins."

**Yay. Okay, so Shadow Ridge High School - yes, it is a real place. I just changed it's history is all. I think it's only been around since 2000 or so, but for this story's purposes, I changed it so that Reid went there for elementary, and then it changed to a highschool by the time he was 8 or something. It was convenient.**

**Okay, next topic; Charlie Jenkins. In canon, he was killed in something like 1984; meaning Reid would still have been in diapers. I changed that for convenience, too. Hope none of you mind.**

**Remember how, last chapter, I asked who you guys thought the UnSub was? Pretty much all of you said the same person. I'm not saying if you're right or wrong, I just thought it was funny. **

**I hope you liked this chapter, even if it was late in coming, and I just have to add: jeez, guys! Over 100 reviews - I'm touched, especially since there's only a handful of chapters in this story so far. It's quite amazing. You're all so encouraging, and I love you all. **


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